Most Read... Rebecca WattsThe Cult of the Noble Amateur
(PN Review 239)
John McAuliffeBill Manhire in Conversation with John McAuliffe
(PN Review 259)
Eavan BolandA Lyric Voice at Bay
(PN Review 121)
Patricia CraigVal Warner: A Reminiscence
(PN Review 259)
Vahni CapildeoOn Judging Prizes, & Reading More than Six Really Good Books
(PN Review 237)
Tim Parksin conversation with Natalia Ginzburg
(PN Review 49)
Next Issue Hal Coase 'Ochre Pitch' Gregory Woods 'On Queerness' Kirsty Gunn 'On Risk! Carl Phillips' Galina Rymbu 'What I Haven't Written' translated by Sasha Dugdale Gabriel Josipovici 'No More Stories' Valerie Duff-Strautmann 'Anne Carson's Wrong Norma'
Poems Articles Interviews Reports Reviews Contributors
PN Review 275
PN Review Substack

This poem is taken from PN Review 144, Volume 28 Number 4, March - April 2002.

Two Poems after Vermeer Sue Wood


A Glass of Wine

He has been with her all afternoon.
At lunch he sat between her mother and a cousin
talking of ships and cargoes, nutmeg and cloves,
pouring these across the table from a pouch beside his sword.
He never looked at her but crushed
the spices between his thumb and forefinger
until she felt quite giddy with the warm strange scent
that must be the Indies. On his hand the black hairs
stood up like hackles. Her terrier brought in a rat.
And so lunch ended, the dog put outside
and the servant sweeping. Standing up, he brushed
the table clear again. Then turned to her.

So Mama went into town, to get a new piece of lace
or so she said, and the servants were out
and he sat down again.
...


Searching, please wait... animated waiting image