REMBRANDT AND SASKIA
In his first year of marriage he portrays
his wife, paints everything that stays
concealed of her behind the larded cheeks,
the timid lips and rosy ear.
He paints her necklaces and pearls, a dangling
eardrop made of glass that takes an afternoon.
Transparency, but the incensed complaint:
he paints but what exactly does he paint?
Not how she was but what she thought,
what she espied behind the easel, what
that glance revealed – access
to muted grief: a self-portrait, no less.
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