How had he wronged you?
Had he spilt your blood or the blood of your sister with that same sword?
How heavy and strong was he when he struggled against your firm and vengeant arms?
Was it your sister’s idea or your own to spill his blood on the sheets,
One holding the blade to his neck and one to drive it in?
Or did you whisper over your weaving, picturing the scene between your minds again and again
So the act itself was fluid as a dream?
The sheet was torn and your dress ruined.
Did you parade them before the town like a madwoman and take pride in the destruction?
It would be a shame to retreat in dignity and be treated like a saint,
When you are something much more powerful.
The painter must have known you to paint you in combat.
In the other paintings your eyes are averted from your victim, your victory, your triumph.
Artemisia knows you better.
She knows your arms are taut with muscle,
Your skin is darkened by the sun,
And your sister has felt the general’s big fist driving her back and pushed down still.
She knows you wish your sister beside you had a name
In the Scriptures,
Perhaps you wish you were not in the Scriptures at all.
You are more fit for the godless myths of colossal battles;
You share the rage of Achilles.
Caravaggio never met you.
He knew nothing of the contortions of your face.
He would have your nose wrinkled in disgust and remorse
At your crime.
Artemisia knows the general’s cries would not faze you,
That the streams of blood that erupted from his butchered neck
Could not weaken your hold on the sword.
She knows you won your prizes and took them home together:
The sword and the head, both dipped in blood.
Caravaggio would have you leave the sword at the door
And return to your weaving.
The other painters know, at least,
Your face was calm while you clutched him by his hair.
But dressed in blood and rage, you had none of the beauty
Of a portrait of a woman.
You left your beauty at your dwelling
And returned by candlelight
With something much more powerful.