Caravaggio, Judith Beheading Holofernes
Oil on canvas, 57in x 77in., 1598-1599

Judith’s fruited mouth purses as if to kiss, aslant,
the concept of Holofernes dying. She is more arrow
than bone, and better for it. Above her kill, a grant
of red. What does it mean to be transfixed if only narrowly
alive?— Holofernes watches the fabric as Judith unhinges
his neck with a heave, as she rightly wounds him. But out
of where does he watch the red bunting? He is at the fringe
of his life, he is almost completely detached. Still, devout,
he stares, as intent as the maid with her sackcloth. Think
hunger: the pomegranates the maid carried in her bag not
hours ago, the bruising cherries, blood oranges. When
Judith finishes her work, the head will stain within
the burlap and stare terribly at what? The maid will knot
through the night with her goods, like a ship bound to sink.