Nina's poetry

The Birth of Venus

The Birth of Venus*

Sexless for years yet living with a lover,
I identify with Venus, the enigma born 
fully formed. Wistful old souls, our smiles beguile, 
though her beauty far eclipses mine.

Decked in modest clothes, rugged boots, heavy pack,
I walk in meditation in a bamboo grove
as Venus pudica poses in contrapposto, precarious
balanced atop a taupe and gold scallop.

Venus’ lover Thallo stands serene 
in rose-speckled ivory frock, her lithe arms 
open crimson cape whose petals bleed
as she covers Venus’nudity seconds too late.

In his brawny arms, Zephyr clutches 
the invisible blowup doll. Legs crisscross 
tangle akimbo at impossible angles,
fly with wings lacquered black, poisonous.

He blew in to the dining table—
Spry, elevates a salt and pepper eyebrow,
dilates pupils, puffs cheeks, like playing tuba,
becomes a wry devil, ensorcels us.

A world away my lover sails alone
while the devil across the table faces me.
He’s all too cognizant of the magnetism 
of his clever words and how they deceive.

I step off the shelter of the shell
into deep dark waters, too cold to swim.
My protection plan falls fallow
as he plots his seduction.


*after the popular painting, The Birth of Venus by Botticelli c. 1485