© Christopher Raine


Requiem for Venus

Her clothes hung on her
like open boxes of guilt
pleasures of creation
starved in longing
to the congestion of confessions
and propriety enslaved

No one should care
No one ought to
but they did . . .

Trivial matters of flesh and skin
guilt driven into the mind
stabbing like an icicle
of fear and shame
surrendering to the control
of sterile-white hands,
the smell of old men,
and parchment-thin paper