I do belong to you, she said.

Her hands slipping clay, 

Brow furrowed

Instead.

Each carve through her fingers.

He watched and dismayed,

Bespoke yet unreal

Virtuosity.

The smell of earth, ware, and fire.

Revolving on a wheel,

It’s art; It’s desire 

Speaking.

The lie lay like a baking pot

Between hearth and iron

She wasn’t his at all,

Lion.

—-

“If this is not a self-portrait it is because when she paints, she is another person” - Jonathan Jones on Artemisia Gentileschi