Revealing Venus

He was jaded with prostitutes. The young ones were vacuous, their bodies unleavened bread. The mature models scored by the violence of disappointment. Both the naive and the world-weary were dull molds. The sculptor and anatomist, delved deeply into the inquiry of form. As an artist he craved perfection; a risen Venus, immaculate. He dissected, he plucked at visions. On moonless nights carried their corpses on muffled barrow wheels. By the light of a hundred candles he eased flesh apart, nose swathed in verbena drenched rags, hands tweaking tissue, tracing once sensuous shapes under sallow remains. He worked with live models, hired women of every class. The rich were flattered, vain, the poor always eager to earn. None made the stone under his hands blossom. It was a matter of timing, catching Venus as she emerged from her littoral crest. It seemed his models were always coming to, or moving away from that conjunction, yet he kept opening mythical shells until death took him. At his funeral his straight-backed widow, adorned in darkest weeds, hid her anger well. Despising those cold hands that never did understand the revelation of She.