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Nameless for Millennia

the Venus of Willendorf was figurative

first and foremost,

a figure of the ripe fat flesh folds:

On the first night, he told her,

“You smell like a cookie.”

Her embouchure pushes through and the focus of her gaze intercepts breath.

“How I want to bite you.”

See the sand colored dunes that drift and shift and cover grasses with rolling, spreading motions.

See the accumulation

and the rondure of the hills,

soft curvature,

totality of rotation that comes under the pressure of a flat palm pushing down.

I see the moon

and its tenderness has tilted me.

I see the moon and its face turning towards me,

turning off to infinity,

turns its face to face me

turns away to infinity.

Funnels her river there, the current leaks tide

her nipples peaking from the water's bed

dip between the rustling grasses.

A soft hand parts where the mud feels cold

slits the silt open like an envelope,

wet folds with tongue

are pressed firmly to send her off and away.

Corporeal undulations echo over eternity.

However,

the thread of her corn rowed head

is a hand basket afloat in oblivion.

Even at the party, nameless, navel gazing,

he asked her, “so what is it with the constant self-reflexivity thing?”

Her gaze focused on the fat lady's thighs.

He called her Venus as if she'd been missing for millennia.

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