Venus, Botticelli's specifically,
read my tarot cards,
I could love her
if I loved
the curve
of my wrist
the
sound
of my voice caressing
words
if she loved
the shape
of her belly away from painted
beaches
in Renaissance pastels.
The cards speak,
she tells me,
but mumbles under her breath
that beauty lies
deeply
disguised.
This is not what I expected.