The Birth of Venus, by Sandro Boticelli Revisiting Botticelli's Birth of Venus She stands there on the fluted Inside of a scallop shell, Must have been slippery as hell From seawater and all those ridges, And probably cold too. The expression on her face Mildly sardonic, or ironic, Or some other kind of "ick" Because there she is, Not of her own free will With the god Zephyrus Floating like a balloon beside her And blowing hot air, big symbolism, And immense desire and expectation In her face. But what she wants Is the goddess on the shore To hand over that flowered cloak So she can dry off and take a walk, By herself, thanks-very-much, And not be gawked at By all these posers. Bullrushes grow at her feet And she knows They can't even survive In salty water, But, whatever, she thinks, At least I'm not the one Who put them there, They can't blame me for that, And she can't yet know That womankind Will be blamed For every order of error For centuries to come. What she does know Is that some guy painted her Into an absurd situation That she doesn't like. I see her taking the cape And leaping to shore, Striding along the water's edge, Leaving all of that male-contrived Stylized dream of who and what she is To the contemplation of astonished onlookers While she herself moves on, smiling and confident, In search of her own kind of paradise.