Four Moons And what a rare gift it was, this morning's Dream – there I stood: on the shore's edge As a mist began to fall, and a child came running Pointing to the sky, and there they were – [End Page 54] And did I say four? I should have said eight: For behind each luminous orb was a paler Version shadowing it with light – as if Orpheus was leading Eurydice back, And did I say eight? Well, I should have said, Sixteen, for the heavenly moons reflected Like a resurrection from deep – surfacing In a mirror of melt: waveless As mercury, an endless, shallow slate Waiting for me to wade – and I, I was ready – eager to bathe in that glow, Ready to return, eyes focused – till he turned. The Potato Eaters Her back is to us, but her head tilts toward the plate filled with creamy light, and jacketed potatoes: the aureate center, the corolla of this domestic tableau. A touch of Hansa yellow tempts us to smell butter, but it could be merely the amber glow of the ambergris flame, focusing our eyes with the child's to the fat spuds. The earth scent of potato permeates, merging whale oil with salt-sweat as it mingles into shades of viridian and even cadmium. Look – at the woman: how it rouges her face, how casually she wears a flush of tulip on one cheek. [End Page 55] She wears a flush of tulip on one cheek, but no one notices, or how her fork is poised to land on the central dish, but instead hovers like her eyes – waiting, anxious, poised and luminous – with what? Love? Fear? Her two-dimensions expand to three, as her life is framed and frozen. It's a trick, and yet she was real – never expected to travel to Paris, Rome, Tokyo, New York. Never expected to be scrutinized, idolized and hung in Amsterdam. Never expected she would outlast so many root crops, her burnt umber eyes pinned on the man who stares at another woman. The man who stares at the other woman looks concerned – or is he merely tired? Impatient? The girl's father? The rouged woman's mate? Is he displeased, or merely waiting for tea as his fork rests lazily on the main course? Is the older woman his mother? Seems likely as they wear the same nose, the same leathered skin: rough and tan as a mature spud's jacket. Yes, he resembles the humble root he hoes: flat hat tinged with an absinthe glaze that poisons his hand as well – the family Solanacae has deadly relations: what of the old woman, back bent to her task? The old woman, back bent to her task, pours a steady stream of tea into cups. Attentive to her chore as the child to her meal, neither hat nor cheek have time for crimson blushes. She is past that. Her gown is heavy and she moves slowly, [End Page 56] resembling an old brindle cat, past prime. Arthritic, domestic – her brow furrowed with tabby markings, she looks content with familiar smells, familiar scars: the familial group. A smile curls slightly in the corners of her mouth as she slyly takes notice of something said by the old man who presents her with sugar. The old man who presents her with sugar has just spoken. Here, he has just said, or has he called her name, or a soubriquet? Perhaps he is speaking still – his face is merry, is he making a jest? Is this why she smiles? Patiently, he proffers the copper bowl and waits, jacketed in a brown blanket like a mature potato: that commodity always on the edge of thought, that center around which their lives turn, that root and future of all their days. The artist watches, sketches, savors the young girl as she leans toward the plate filled...
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