Lime-Blossom Tea
at the kitchen table, cups and hats
and hands, a still-life left unpainted.
the air steams with citrus, a tinge of vinegar.
pickled herring served with stove potatoes
cooked in a flat clay pot. someone, his aunt perhaps,
speaks of her day at the hat-shop.
“the shape of the head is difficult to navigate.
customers do not understand the art.”
his mother nods in agreement.
after supper, a village walk.
he takes sticks of twisted barley
sugar from traveling gypsies,
tasting lime and grain, dissolving
into a sour, sweet thickness
his tongue cannot breach.
the serenity of the fading light,
twinkling brown like a Bruegel,
leaves his hands swinging idle at his sides:
they didn’t know the only thing
that drove him to paint
was the rising urge
to strangle someone.