Like Judith
by Marci G. Jaffer
She mulls over the blurred recollection
his eyes dark and starless
his hands like the cold metal of a vault
caressing scars along the small of her back, raised and forgotten (never)
her spirit hovers in crisis…
when
ever
will she ponder the divine, the notion of eternal beauty, an approving God
the gilded path to truth
again?
his fingertips tickling the inside of her fleshy thighs beneath a dress of crimson red
stiff with age
she sighs within: My God, My God, My…
She has forgotten art, sans Caravaggio’s, Judith Beheading Holofernes
like Judith—she is capable, even cunning
forgotten the right words
colors of consciousness-muted
his mouth pressed into her neck on an empty corner
under a streetlamp, raindrops trapped in its dull glow
he is the hurricane that wakes her and collapses her
in disarray
her daily discourse replete with flowery similes and bold metaphors
no one would ever guess…
the storm beneath
his hands pulling on the delicate lace–panties like tissue paper
squeezing her legs closed
in the lightening an image of Judith revealed
she takes hold of his hair
repulsed empowered ambivalent disgusted
slay save escape…
bloody lips parted in awe
the sky opens
she inhales the rain