9
venus in ishtar’s telescope
she gets a little dark now and then,
eye sockets bruising with thoughts beating on the inside
of her skull. she is human, but
a figure drawing. she dresses in mid-morning sun
& that cloud over her head makes the bruises mauve, navy,
you sit at your desk unwilling
to see the rain hit her. stark back, calves
like waned moons. plain and not pockmarked. illusory, still, and
telling you what she hears doesn't help,
though you both feel your words
spatter indigo dusk and desolation
on your white canvases. bleed
alienation. crimson cringing. when
her tears of sulfur fall,
you both end up with blisters on your skin.