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.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2019
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