Milkmaid of Popindrecht

A dutch flower in one corner,
A chain lying in the other.
You stand between these things;
Above the dirt
And behind the hay.
You stand above the chain
And tarnished brass bellies;
Dangling one jug copper
Just barely in numb hands.
In your eye I see the paint crack;
These awkward fingers clamping the hip,
Jutting out.
A headdress with gold bangles
Enveloping your pale face;
These are not a milkmaid's.
Slant your hips,
And look away
From this,
Down on a patch of
Earth.
This is not the milkmaid,
But the sultan in the sun;
Desperate for a drop
To fall,
And gouge,
And clean,
Until the smell of paint
Carries no more
On the hands of flowers.