for Kevin <br /> <br />The woman is as round <br />as the new ring <br />ambering her finger. <br />The mirror weds her. <br />She has long since been bedded. <br /> <br />There is <br />about it all <br />a quiet search for attention, <br />like the unexpected shine <br />of a despised utensil. <br /> <br />The oils, <br />the varnishes, <br />the cracked light, <br />the worm of permanence – <br />all of them supplied by Van Eyck – <br /> <br />by whose edict she will stay <br />burnished, fertile, <br />on her wedding day, <br />interred in her joy. <br />Love, turn. <br /> <br />The convex of your eye <br />that is so loving, bright <br />and constant yet shows <br />only this woman in her varnishes, <br />who won’t improve in the light. <br /> <br />But there’s a way of life <br />that is its own witness: <br />Put the kettle on, shut the blind. <br />Home is a sleeping child, <br />an open mind <br /> <br />and our effects, <br />shrugged and settled <br />in the sort of light <br />jugs and kettles <br />grow important by. <br /> <br /> <br />Eavan Boland<br /><br />Eavan Aisling Boland<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/domestic-interior/
