Oh Sofonisba! Let the men be ******!
Let your beauty reign, and let the women own right with their hands
Brush strokes, so beautiful and precise -
flattering marigold trapped onto the kind canvas' clothed lands -
Show them truth, the passion that you dare share
to the humblebrags that gather o'around the gracious air
Guide the worlds, show them what'll make them stutter on their words
Let the court greet you, let the men sail overseas to see your works
Michaelangelo, campi, Gatti - dear they're here to guide you
Oh Sofonisba, let your paintings shine through centuries, all remembered -
let the women see and too inspire
You, sofonisba, be our gateway to guide the herd here around, all over the world
You, your art, let them dare be desired
shan't worry if they be burnt a crisp, flattering dove -  withering flame

Sofonisba Anguissola, (born c. 1532, Cremona [Italy]—died November 1625, Palermo)

in living we all walk toward the dawn,
through moonless nights,
through cold and touchless mist,
yet sunbirth come: only some shall carry on,
the rest remain,
in pain,
to on departed souls subsist.

There was a girl lying on the floor,
she was covered in blood,
her skin sliced by his blades.

There was a girl lying on the floor,
she was covered in bruises,
her skin tarnished by his fists.

There was a girl lying on the floor,
dead and ruined.

She was ruined by what she thought was love,
and killed, by the man she thought loved her.

but he didn’t love her, he loved his canvases.

There was a canvas lying on the floor,
his canvas was lying on the floor.

There was a canvas lying on the floor,
his canvas was covered in red,
painted by his blades.

There was a canvas lying on the floor,
his canvas was covered in blue,
painted by his fists.

There was a canvas lying on the floor,
his canvas was ruined, and overused.

He needed to get a new one,
since he loved painting so much.

He always had a smile on while painting his canvases.

II

Blue base and pink hues, black lining, framing the face saw once in dreams, a face with a name that began with the letter M. The other painting – a hazy black, red lips, no eyes – is a man’s face. Flying across shadowed, spiralling stairs, I encountered exits blocked by chairs – all these impressionist paintings hanging along the corridor, where a painter was explaining to his students the woman he met in his dream… they all called to me as a dream factory, dream logic – where everything was bound and unburdened, and we were told to identify faces in these coffin paintings. All day we tried matching, mouth stuttering half-formed names, lost faces, amputated body parts, strangers’ fragmented memory. Then the old lady I was working with let out a wail. She bolted, I followed, and there we saw creatures known as man and woman – to the woman on the right, she greeted with the M-lettered name, and to the man on the left she pointed at the eyeless painting, said, stranger, this is you– and they wept together.

Stroke, stroke
Charcoal on the paper
I grip my pencil by her neck
Stroke, stroke
Darling on the paper

I gaze at the face for hours
Imprint every single pore of the skin
In my eyes

I cannot draw well,
But I do try, to mirror
darling on the paper
stroke, stroke

I bend my wrist,
To draw the scarlet of the lips
And I fill in, black for the cherry
the eyes, magnificent as ocean
Two celestial bodies
I fill in the miniscule details
The minute galaxy in the iris

And the smooth nose
Casting a shadow over the left side
I press my pencil to add the dark
Stroke, stroke
The tip broke,
How dare she!
Come between us
Becoming a barricade
Run her head on the blades!
Stroke, stroke

The hair next
countless wisps
and at the end
I rub my finger tip on the grainy paper
Blend, blend
I finish my masterpiece,

How foolish of me
Thinking I could replicate, imitate
My darling’s beauty
This is a sheer mockery of God’s creation
It’s full of my sins, and devoid of any feeling
I must rip it, get rid of it

And I must try again
Stroke, stroke
Charcoal on paper…

My eyes watch
as the sky
is painted with colors of
soft blues & white fluffs
to
vivid pinks & dazzling oranges.

Soon to be
pitch blacks & deep violets
with tiny bright lights
speckled on with flicks of His brush.

Soon to be tomorrow,
strokes of
happy yellows & stunning golds.