Botticelli My Way

His legs scroll round me like a question mark.
I tickle him: he yelps, and rolls away –
Or would, except I’m pinning down his arm
as it were a football. Which makes me
a five foot nothing quarterback, and him
a very weak gorilla. Happy though.
In fact he’s back – and judging by the view,
I’m shoulder-wrapped again. As for the hand
that’s drifts about my body, quizzical?
Well: male of course. A forelimb, rather large –
And suddenly he’s strangered:
                                              Pull away.
Stark naked as I am, it’s up to me:
a midget Venus, new-born, rising from –
Okay, I’m short of clamshells; it’s a bed.
I mean it though. Look, I’ve been born before
and – well, I didn’t like it.  So my clam
is metaphorical, and stops half way
with just my head and shoulders peering out.
Me, I’d be cautious: check horizons, wind.
And scrutinize those Botticelli waves;
they look like wrinkled bed-sheets. Only then
would my hinge open – slow, expectantly.
And when I walked that strangely flattened sea
I’d do it openly, without the help
of those disguising tresses: they’re not me.
I’d step out of my clamshell worry-free,
and dive into that fish-fast, quick-flash grin.

Kathryn Jacobs



If you have any comments on this poem, Kathryn Jacobs would be pleased to hear from you.