Poem with misremembered Vermeer by Guion Pratt
"Tonight, I wanted the wine in your cup. I mean, to be it."
GUION PRATT
Poem with misremembered Vermeer
Here is the line
where a colony
of purple-tooth
bracket fungi clashes
against a flank
of false turkey tails
across the surface
of the felled oak
by the creek. Deep
in the heartwood
the war beneath
the war: tendrils
of hyphae test
the border they make
with their bodies
urgent as knees
touching under
a table. Everywhere
I’ve lived already
had a fence
around it when I
moved in. It was never
in question whose property
the spruce tree was
though its branches reached over
to shade the neighbors’
trampoline. They’ve gone
back to Jakarta
until next summer
as they do each fall
but said to come jump
all we want. Said nothing
about the motorcycle
parked in the unlocked
shed. Sometimes, you
want to go somewhere
you can’t go, so you go
home and lie
down. Tonight,
I wanted the wine
in your cup. I mean,
to be it. Most days
what I want
is want, lucky me,
easy to come by
in this life. I want
a painting with good
exits, one
where the gambler hides
the ace behind
his back or the maid
pours milk into
the family bowl,
her eyes fixed
on something just
out of frame.
First published by Poetry Society of America, 2025
Loved the poem. Thank you for sharing. Ahh @Adrião Pereira da Cunha this poem was by Guion Pratt.
Ease up on the ChatGPT my man!
Hello — reading your poem felt like slipping into someone’s thoughts mid‑stride, the way a mind actually moves when it isn’t trying to impress anyone. The way you start with fungi battling under the bark feels so strangely intimate, like you’re paying attention to the quiet wars no one else notices. Then you drift into fences, neighbors, Jakarta, trampolines — all these tiny borders and permissions that make up a life. What really hit me was that moment of wanting to be the wine in someone’s cup; it’s such a soft, unguarded confession, the kind that escapes before you can dress it up. And the honesty of admitting that most days you just want the wanting — that felt painfully human. The ending, with the gambler’s hidden ace and the maid pouring milk, feels like you’re searching for a painting that gives you a way out, or maybe a place to rest. The whole poem moves like someone trying to understand their own hunger one image at a time.