after Gabriel Metsu’s A Kitchenmaid Preparing Carrots
The artist caught you looking at him,
your small eyes and thin lips,
green apron, and the door behind you, open.
A basket on the table,
three carrots, one in your hand,
a knife, poised, in the other.
Fish lie in a pan in front of you.
Tonight there will be a full moon,
but there will be too much fog to see it.
The church will ring its bells,
and when you walk on the mud and stony path,
you will slip. A dog will come to you,
wag its thick tail.
You will not smile,
you will not see the man greet you
as you walk back home,
or the owl on the tree.
You will be late for mass.
It will not be enough, not for you,
nor for the owner of the house,
or for the people at the church
that are asking where you are.
