The Birth of Aphrodite

The Birth of Aphrodite
François Boucher, The Birth of Venus (c. 1732-5), from Wikimedia Commons.

Beauty, we know your story:

Time’s violent scythe

Brought you into the world

On a spray of jism (pronounced: sea-foam).

Would it be indelicate to inquire

Why this strange origin of Beauty

This dependency on horror?

Honoré de Balzac said of every great fortune, it begins with a crime.

Balzac was no great beauty.

True: in Rodin’s hands he had an air about him.

No offense, Daughter of Sky

As you emerge, nymphs trailing, from the Sea

Newborn full-length pristine stretched naked over wanton canvas in every artist’s loft

Impress your womanly form into the stony cold

Of marble blocks & my own dreams

& yet still pure although

Flecked with those small blood-speckled bits of that truly ginormous

Balzac (& I’m talking huge)

That swung through the air

In the invisible night

And landed in your Botticelli.  




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Bold white spray-painted letters drip until they pool like blood—sinister in regard but their meaning lost on me.
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Once I saw a man, whose brother had been murdered, sidearm a coin into a fountain.


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