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At the Museo Barberini
There are no others
in the painting
only Judith and Holofernes
and I am accustomed
to disappearing in allegory,
to hiding in the confines
of details. I am safer
here, standing in this gallery,
watching decapitations
and helplessness.
I will not be drawn in
by her billowing robes,
that wild mangle of folds
conceals a jagged sheath.
I have not yet mastered
the tricks of illusion;
perspective is always formed
at the vanishing point.
And I can be so easily betrayed:
she in all her fierce courage,
he of the familiar scowl
These jealousies overwhelm me
at the most inopportune moments,
and I cannot say for sure
whose severed head she holds.
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