Artemisia

I think, therefore I paint,

I paint, therefore I am. 

There is a scene that I see reflected on my canvas,

Before I can even begin dipping my brushes into crimsons and chartreuses,

Of a girl punished for not wanting a love shoved upon her.

She bears a sun on her chest, encircled by a viper,

And my own burns with my final strokes.

Blood runs down my thighs, 

I turn to wipe a brush and see Susanna’s eyes now bleeding.

We wear the same corsets,

We bear the same bodies.

‘Like calls to like’

My art chants,

Paintings of women betrayed watch as I hang Susanna among them,

They are led by Cassandra, the loudest of them all.

She is our predecessor. 

The men frown and sigh,

‘How could you paint something so barbaric?’

They say, looking at Judith Slaying Holofernes,

But don’t bat an eye at the portrait next to mine,

Of Ajax and Cassandra.