Like the print of a key in wax, the soul

Like the print of a key in wax, the soul
has a hollow shaped like faith. I reach
in pain and find nothing but ache and absence,
and that suggestive shape. It is a grief,
perhaps, but not for someone known –
whose small gestures haunt, that particular
head tilt still glimpsed in crowds. But
in a formal portrait of my grandmother’s family,
a spider hand on the back records the names
of draping skirts and pale lace children, notes too
that there were three infants who did not survive,
all named Helen.
Faith, the taste of that name.
The mother’s slim hands vanishing into blurred velvet.