V. of W.

Slide number one.

With a clink or a push of a button you

Steal the attention of thirty to well past a hundred

Little souls whose eyes go straight to the

“V” that is your pride and joy.

Your bulbous stomach would never dare cover

That sacred little triangle.

You’re a fertility goddess.

Your brood is probably in the double digits by now.

Age does not exist for you.

Perhaps you’re a grandmother, maybe even a great one.

At least a person a day worships you

With a kiss, an endearing look, an act of service.

The heathens want to sacrifice a sheep, but you

See a coat and fetch scissors.

You have no name.

You’re simply:

Beloved. Mother. Lady.

Feminine titles are all yours.

You have no need for androgyny.

You’re Venus after all.

Leave indefinition to the birds and other statues.

You’re naked and unabashed as a babe.

You look like you lost track of Mars some time ago

And posed for a statue all your own.

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