Albert Cuyp
Portrait of a Lady, 1649
Oil on Panel

After the cardinal,
swollen, red and
unnatural,
and repugnant,
swooning cherubim,
you come away.

You cross into
another silent room
where she presides
with her weak chin
and her long nose.
And with her eyes.

And there you find
her gentle eyes
have been on you
familiarly,
so when you turn
you catch her gaze.

And with her eyes
she holds the room
and also you.
You stir inside,
and strangely feel
recognition.

Her ruff all stands
about her neck
but nothing like
a platter, for there
is in her gaze
a mastery.

Familiar rests
her gaze on you,
as if you knew
her, or rather
she had looked
upon your soul.

And there you think
that here old Cuyp
served something up:
not death, but life,
a sympathy,
made all of paint.

Alternate endings:

1–the Less
it makes his panel
framed and hung
a kind of mirror.

2–the Least
you feel you ought
to be polite
and say goodby.