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.
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.