Blood Water Paint: Part III

Father’s returned from his revelries,
drunk on all he gets out there
he cannot find in here
and dead to the world
until he must wake
to face his disappointment.

I sketched my own face,
working out proportions
my father couldn’t explain.

The way men paint them
I might have thought
they’d float away
if they weren’t tethered
to my earthly flesh.

They’d have to care enough
to see the other as a subject
worthy of their earnest study.

My own oblivion horrifies me more.
I’ve been here all along
but somehow not.

Tuzia’s eyes cannot decide
if they should glare at me
or at our interloper.

He knows full well
he’s interrupted
but lacks the tiniest hint
of remorse in his twinkling eyes.

Clear, tangible actions lift the weight that has pressed down upon her heart every second since she became a widow.

“It’s a long way to travel with heavy provisions. If they don’t kill us, I’m sure they’ll feed us.”

For I’m a little girl when they want to belittle me, a woman when they want me to bear a child.

“Your womb is of little interest to me either way. But I’m somewhat fond of how you prattle on.”

I would be off his hands.
He would like to see me married,
someone else’s yoke.

You cannot shirk
the less appealing
aspects of our craft,
simply because you think
them beneath you.

No one else
is going to inhale
the fumes of boiling
rabbit hide, or strain
the putrid chunks until
they’re fit to smear across a canvas.

I lose control
of proper speech
and fluster
bluster
muster up
no words at all
before my father
interrupts us.

He laughs, a boisterous thing
that bounces off the walls.

I’m not behaving
like his smitten girl
devoted student,
flirt and stroker of his ego.

And this is where he’s right:
if there are impurities in the oil,
the painting will be ruined.

The only thing Father understands:
my Susanna’s different.
She’s raw but skillful
—a tempting novelty—
and just might fetch a handsome sum.

I know the words, though—
words they hurl at any woman
foolhardy to force herself
into a world of men.

Tino lurches through the door
all stumbling boots and flailing arms.

No hint of smooth sophistication,
no wooing charm.

I wasn’t sure
he would return
since I spurned his offer
(such an offer).

Lilting charm was not the answer.

Instead of leaving, he sidles closer,
his breath crowding my cheek,
hands on my waist.

I twist out of his grasp,
unable to feign calm
a moment longer.

He pins me with his gaze
while calloused hands
rend my heart
like it’s nothing.

She also fought her parents tooth and nail
when they betrothed her to Joaquim.

Mother never told me tales
of girls
who settled
for the least
appalling option.

It takes Judith and Abra surprisingly little effort to get past the captain’s guard—a lifted skirt, a saucy smile, a promise to deliver exactly what the captain needs.

Father’s Judith cradles
a pristine severed head
like the baby she never knew
she longed for.

When Judith’s back hits the pallet, even she wonders if she can do this.

Her girlish crush
grates on me,
pestle on mortar.

Though she prepares herself, even Judith has no idea how much blood there will be. Whether it will dribble out, tepid, or erupt, scorching, with so much force it splatters her breasts, her mouth, her eyes, intermingles with her fear, her rage, her gut instinct to protect her people, avenge her husband, and make sense of what she’s lost.

The hours float by
on a torrent of blood.
I don’t know how long
I paint; I only know
my hands are covered
in vermillion.

There’s no cajoling now.
No soothing words
and promises.

I barely remember my father’s rage
when he laid eyes on the canvas I ruined.
What’s forever entrenched:
the stab to my gut when the colors,
so glorious in my mind,
globbed together,
dribbled down,
puddled on the floor
like a child’s accident.

Blood still gushes from his neck, while the head lolls on the ground. The thud it made on impact reverberates in Judith’s brain.

Hands are so much more complex,
tell whole stories of their own:
clenched fists, ecstatic palms,
fearful fingers white with terror.

Pain knifes through me
but it’s barely a drop
in the deluge of horror.