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You might as well have a few more poems by Candia, now

that I am getting out all my old compositions. Here’s one on


Diego Velázquez. Christ in the House of Martha and Mary. Detail.

His enigmas of dark bodegas where

every week is Semana Santa and

humble figures poach eggs, serve their fellows;

wait for a sharp sunbeam epiphany;

show more intensity than a brazen gleam

from mortars, or a water droplet’s sheen.

Dim Seville interiors, shaft-denied,

divulge a dignified resignation

to the present; trust that significance

may dawn. Unspoken communication

resonates with diverse shared agendas.

Glaucous fish eyes uncomprehendingly

stare in Martha’s kitchen, but through the hatch

is glimpsed the divine. That young mulatto

girl, washing up, is suddenly aware

of a moment of grace in her tavern:

an Emmaus experience. The boy

who so anxiously clutches a trussed melon

quadranted by a knotted, twisted cord

seems to sense he cradles a wounded world,

whose riches are bound up and can’t be shared –


As he receives cool water, a man’s face,

mystery-shrouded, looks on silently.

Is he the fourth man, the one from the den?

Is he aware that the same boy’s destiny

will be to attend the Adoration

and possibly witness the death of God?

In the event of a resurrection

will someone dare to open the shutters

and let the sun tear through the curtained shroud?

Diego Velázquez. Old Woman Frying Eggs.