Shell of Venus

A 5-year-old,

running around 

Grandma’s house.


A sculpture stand

on the steps,

a naked woman on a shell.


Its delicacy is scary;

the thought of 

destruction of beauty.


A 10-year-old’s mother,

claiming beauty for 

being born on the land of Venus;


A memory of a home.

A nostalgia of flawless beauty.

A land of what-ifs.


A 20-year-old,

searching for familiarity 

in Botticelli’s brush strokes.


Where does Venus belong?


In the middle of the Mediterranean,

where she was born out of pain?


In Paphos, where she first

settled on terrain?


In Olympus where goddesses

like her lived?


In Florance, where her birth

was made into a naked woman on a shell?


Is she even Venus

or is she Aphrodite?


How can one recognise a land

of grandma stories, yet feel like an exile?


Perhaps, it is stories that make 

one exists, parts cut from one 

that give birth to one.


Perhaps, one’s both the cloak

and the wind that blows off 

all the covers.


Perhaps she is not one 

but all;


she’s not of one

but her own.



Photo Credits: Adam Wilson on Unsplash –

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