Francisco de Goya, Saturno Devorando a Uno de Sus Niños, 1819-1823,

                                                                                  Museo del Prado, Madrid.
I’m dining with Goya in Quinta del Sordo, a villa

by the Manzanares he bought from a deaf man.

He has no reason to change its name. Evening’s 
gloom invades the room. The pinturas Negras

loom from fitful shadows cast by frugal flames

from a pair of candles. We eat fabada assailed 
by visual screams – wretchedness, hopelessness,

loneliness, old age and death ungraced by puny

promises of salvation’s solace. Angels of mercy
do not ply Goya’s glowering firmaments. From

my chair I stare at two peasants clubbing each

other to pulp in a bog. If Goya glances up he’ll 
watch an ugly mad-eyed old Titan, who fears his

children will usurp his powers, rip the head from

his naked child with his teeth. I know the moral 
of the myth: age is devouring youth until, one day,

a child evades the savage maw, grows to maturity

and returns boiling for retribution. I shout at Goya, 
‘Francisco, is this to be our fate?’ (He won’t reply

if I use titles or formalities.) I bellow my question

four or five times. Finally, he raises his left hand
palm exposed. His right grips a spoon dripping

fabada. ‘You think I paint what I don’t believe?’

he says. ‘Which barrio of hell do you spring from?’