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Judith I
by Jaz Sufi 

Judith I (1901), Gustav Klimt
I was gilt and gold-plated, dreaded. I wore God's
will like a gown and wore it well. No, I was never a
woman who waited for the world to unsheathe its
promises; even as a child, not a single mosquito
could taste me and survive. My palm would crack
against my own body to take back what was mine
in those red-smeared summers. Perhaps it was
practice: I was naked as meat cleaved from a
bone when I killed you, and, like meat, 

I dripped. You were naked, too, sleeping while I
aligned my knife to your horizon. If I were a man, I
might have taken trophies — the petty general
between your legs now flaccid as a peace flag, or
the jug of fine wine you guzzled like a well would
water. A man might grasp for whatever looks most
like glory in the dark, but a widow knows better
than to weigh herself down. What I did I did as
proof, not pride. I was gossamer with a firm grip;
when I left, I left your body behind like a grudge.




Jaz Sufi (she/hers) is a mixed race Iranian-American poet and arts educator. Her work has been published or is upcoming in AGNI, Colorado Review, Black Warrior Review, Birdfeast, and elsewhere. She is a Kundiman fellow and National Poetry Slam finalist, winner of the 2020 Yellowwood Poetry Prize, and is currently pursuing her MFA as a Goldwater fellow at New York University. She lives in Brooklyn with her dog, Apollo.

ISSN 2157-8079
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