A Portrait of Artemisia
Ivory, mere traces,
a Blancanieves with echoes of freckles.
She hated those but he loved them.
Her eyes were darker than night and easily as deep,
profound but not really revealing, not windows to her soul
but perhaps mirrors of what he’d hoped to see.
Her hair, when it was as nature meant it to be
was abundant, cascading in waves of ebony
highlighted in hints of very deep burnt umber,
and little wonder at the burnt aspect; she generated a mysterious heat,
perhaps the residue of totally controlled passion
frozen into myriad shades of deepest dark.
Her neck was long and slender, swan-like;
A pedestal for her high held, aloof head.
Her thoughts hidden, perhaps even from herself.
Not the sort of person for one to fall deeply in love with,
not the sort one might forget, ever,
even though one might very much wish to.
© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2014; all rights reserved