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.

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Photo Credits: Adam Wilson on Unsplash – https://unsplash.com/photos/ENJVnrvAMuA

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