Gentileschi as the Agent of Prurience:
An Ekphrastic Poem Base on Genetileschi's Self-Portrait

Exactly how can one pose whilst being painted by the one you desire?
Exactly how can one remain still as emotions erupt into a fire?

How does one describe what it is I see?
How does one confess what I wish we could be?
How does one admit what the heart cannot concede?

Does she see me?
Does she see me as the person I wish to be?

She is a painting personified.
She is a beauty that will not be denied.
She is a glorious canvas brought to life by a passion sure to be her creator's pride.

Is she aware of her chocolate stare to which one cannot compare?
Is she aware that when my gaze averts it is because her eyes make me feel bare?

She glimmers in her emerald dress and cocoa apron-a perfect match those ever-alluring eyes.
She glimmers in a radiant intensity that takes me by surprise.
She glimmers in my heart though I know it is not wise.

Glimmers of hope must be set aside.
Glimmers of hope reflect as her golden necklace sways from side to side.

Of all our contemporaries which among them has noticed?
Of all our competing emotions why is lust’s torture so devoted?
Of all our stories’ possible endings, why has fate chosen for love to be ever so shrouded?

All my thoughts become muddied as if to reflect the walls brown hue.
All my thoughts seem so undue.

My Mother’s voice rings darker than my love’s black hair.
My Mother’s voice tells me that for someone like me, life is unfair.
My Mother’s voice echoes a warning that both our figures may be pale, but only hers is fair.

Mother’s warnings may be right.
Mother’s warnings may be what prevents me from knowing self-esteem’s delight.

Warnings are given to women like me.
Warnings are given that to love a woman is daring life to show how cruel it can be.
Warnings are given by my heart’s fragility that I should ignore the delectably plump arm that paints me.

Are women like me simply condemned never to obtain our heart’s desire?
Are women like me never able to have a romance set our souls, not just our thoughts on fire?