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First Portrait

When I was young, the painter came and painted me

beautiful, a book in one hand, my other hand turned out

as if waiting for You to take it and ask me to dance.

But all my secrets were simmering inside me

like spices—like cinnamon—or red pepper

ground to powder and ready to burn your mouth.

My desires were as sweet as a singing swan.

Second Portrait

I went away from the house where I was fostered

and took refuge in a monastery dedicated to Saint Jerome,

and he came again, that painter, and painted me:

sitting in my black and white habit, a wall of books

behind me, one open before me (not the Bible),

my beads wound round my body and dripping down

my shoulder, across my thigh, held in my hand,

but easy to ignore in comparison

to the oval portrait, like a shield of faith, upon my breast

showing an angel with rainbow wings flying above

someone kneeling, like Paul on the Damascus road, before

the Power that changes us in the middle of our life’s path.

Little did I know! All that would be asked of me

by the Archbishop—my books, my music,

my scientific instruments—for answering Sor Filotea.

Yes, I confess, I said that a woman has as much

a right as a man to learn to read and write, and to do it

freely! But I was not free. I was bound by my vows.

So I surrendered all.

Third Portrait

The painter came again and painted me before I died,

one hand resting on the book of my own works, the other

holding the breviary (for life is brief), while wearing

my escudo, another oval painting upon my breast, this time showing a woman, an angel, and a dove

descending from heaven and announcing that

the new life had come.