This glittering woman - breasts hospitably bare,
eyes collusive slits, lips moist and parted -
has with Holofernes’ own sword started
his head from his torso. Her fingers stroke his hair;
just out of frame his neck drips bloodily.
Klimt’s Viennese women rustle: their gowns declare
their status as elegant objects of desire.

The near-naked Judith signals bodily
an appetite not admitted in those others.
The painter hit the nerve-ends of the story:
a widow whoring for the sake of her country,
seducing and killing the invader, discovers
how to join lust with patriotic glory.
She had it both ways and, looking, so do we.