Aphrodite

Aphrodite came out of the sea,
Barefoot,
Wearing jeans, a shell necklace,
A bunch of bangles at her wrist,
And nothing else.

I was there, on the beach,
In the first gray of morning,
A little ashy bonfire of a girl--

I was writing poems,
Which I considered, by turns,
To be well worth fucking me for,
Or,

To be the stupidest,
Most scorn-worthy scraps of weasel crap
Ever to insult an innocent blank page.

All these things depend upon
How recently you have stretched out on top of me,
Smiling;
Or how fresh your indifference,
Thorned into my borrowed shell.

"Aph," I said,
"Tell me,
How is it that the waves always come this way,
Wearing stones down to sand,
And yet...

I remain as dry as driftwood,
Smooth and silly and flat on my back,
Waiting to be carved?"

Aphrodite complained that she had lost a bangle in the surf;
I have seen many women's backs,
But hers, when she turned,
Was so beautiful, it reminded me of yours.

I know she didn't hear me, or care,
But still I asked,
"Why am I always the sunset, well-remembered, Aph?
And why never
The longed-for shore?"
_____
for Mary's Mixed Bag at Real Toads.