Botticelli’s Venus Tries To Forget
Do not speak of that dreadful day in Cypress
when you stroked the green air
and my charcoal silhouette blushed.
Or of the black sky, how it swallowed
white flecks of geese.
I want to forget how I posed for you
in the jaws of a scallop shell
while roses fell like rain.
That night, how I stood under falling stars
while the nymph beside me grew yellow eyes
and my hair turned to rust.
You will never know the waves like I,
how they wormed their way onto the shore—
the stench of salt that clung to the air.
Nor can you fathom the utter regret
of being blown into a sinful world
by Zephyr’s sour breath.