Vermeer’s Milkmaid
He sees curves,
the roundness of shoulders,
soft arms muscle-bulged,
lips arched, complicit.
Captures it
with one deft stroke;
the brush goes where hands won’t.
He takes time over
her skirts, knowing each
dip and fold;
hints at the
suggestion of breasts,
untouched.
Her eyes he keeps to himself,
they might expose
the knowledge they both hold.
He hides it in sepia tones,
husks of bread,
the thin line of milk
slipping into the bowl.