Thursday, June 29, 2017

You are the very picture of Venus.
A classical beauty you are.
Unlike my last girlfriend, who
looked more like Venus’s killer—

petite, swarthy, untrustworthy,
and need I say altogether desirable—
side-slit duster cardigan and shorts,
infinity scarf, angry earrings

here and there, and lipstick
hastily applied. But you are an apple
standing, oversized creature.
Boring brown hair intertangled

with seaweed, a lock of hair
twisted around your forefinger.
You, standing in an enormous shell,
singing: You, my heavenly hell

as, all around you, Cupid’s winging,
as, all below you, ocean’s roiling,
and above, clouds are boiling,
palms bending to left and right,

fishes jumping into sight
and out again. Large lady,
now I know why Jupiter’s pissed.
The least you could do is not exist.

• • •

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