Venus on the Rocks
Ask about the drunk goddess–
hair and gown of lathered mist,
no lie—she rose from water
a shimmering, thorned flower, almost eternal.
As the sky sleeps,
the woman wants you
to recall sprays of purple and bitter rust
but the wind moans, I am your mother. Listen.
The sea urged her on,
that is what her friends said,
caught between red-petaled love and shadows below,
she dove. Submerged in a forgotten dream.
The raw rocks have hard milky faces—
but watch—they tell time
in whispered pink, sweet always or never,
siren songs for sailors, symphony in a storm.
Beneath the fiddler’s notes,
you wonder if you understand–
this is moon-language falling like rain,
blood-beauty swimming from the blue, unattainable, but known.
My message from the Oracle. Maybe a cadralor?