after the painting by Johannes Vermeer
The hanging map behind you teems with boats and islands.
The wooden chair is hard against your back. Light, golden
as Spanish dollars, makes you squint. You go on smiling.
He'll weave strange stories like Ulysses 'til the leaden
dusk comes to drape its cloak on Delft, and every window
eventually goes dark. Your hands, so chastely folded
in front of your boned bodice, tell no tales. The morrow
will come -- it always does -- and he'll be gone to wander
again, to march to other drums. You want to winnow
out mysteries as well; alas, the world is kinder
to swaggering officers than laughing girls. The lecture
is done. He asks if you would like a chance at splendor,
then pours a glass of it and offers you the tincture.
You drink it all, preparing for a far-flung venture.