after Console by Maud Cotter

       Inside the studio
there was paint, plaster
half baked and a preponderence
of egg yolk yellow

light primrose and the purple roses of
Irish dressers. For weeks there was little more
than white teacups from BHV
then, more sulky racehorse

than furniture she bought, or had brought
a mirror console on slim legs
half in, half out of the courtyard studio,
its hard cosmopolitan elegance
gave a wild grace to the domestic.

It cleared the threshold. The finished piece
held teacups with plaster milk
rising out of them, the many slips

between cup and lip caught in mid air
as the mirrored forelegs touched down
might be lives measured out, the sad sup
of our afternoons.

       I am reminded of Mary
the Scottish queen. Her delicate throat
down which red wine was seen to run
as she drank.