By Valentina DuPont
Poem Introduction
After writing my short story reflection about the film Melania, I felt there was still something left unsaid.
And it wouldn’t be me if I didn’t try to express that space through poetry.
This poem is not about her.
It is not for her.
It is not political.
It is simply about how I felt watching her.
How it felt to observe the image of a woman so close to power, yet emotionally distant from the viewer.
A reflection not of who she is, but of what it felt like to witness her portrayal.
A poem about symbolism, perception, and the quiet questions that linger beneath presentation.
Under the Brim
By Valentina DuPont
I did not go looking for her.
I went looking for a story.
A Friday night
that fell asleep without me
sent me alone
into a theater
lit like ceremony.
Her name opened the film
without explanation
just a silhouette
stitched into power.
Fabric spoke first.
Always fabric.
Seams where memories
might have been.
Designers where childhood
could have lived.
Her mother’s legacy
folded into tailoring
instead of touch.
The film dressed her
before it knew her.
Three days of ceremony
prepared like scripture
white, gold, immaculate.
Invitations carried gravity.
Flowers held symbolism.
Carpets remembered footsteps
that had not yet happened.
I waited
for something unscripted.
Grief appeared briefly.
A cathedral.
Red flowers breathing silence.
She lit a candle
for her mother
with someone else’s flame
then left before the wax
could soften.
A priest blessed her.
“Amen,”
the room expected.
“Thank you,”
she answered.
And I wondered
how many prayers
sound like diplomacy
when spoken in a borrowed country.
Later,
her father walked beside her
through the private corridors
of history.
A monumental day
folding into night.
He paused.
She turned.
Goodnight.
See you tomorrow.
No embrace.
Just the distance
of a daughter
already living inside
a role too structured
for softness.
And then… the hat.
Wide enough
to hold expectation.
Elegant enough
to pass for armor.
It shaded her eyes
from chandeliers
that offered no sun.
We wear hats
to shield ourselves from light
but what protects us
from being seen?
High above the city
gold doors closed softly
behind ceremony.
A skyline stretched beneath her
like a promise
few women would ever inherit.
I admired the perfection.
But I searched
for contradiction.
For wrinkles
in the narrative.
For evidence
of the ordinary chaos
most women wear
like invisible fabric.
I left the theater
still looking
not for who she was,
but for what remained
beneath the brim.
Poems From The Kitchen Table 
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