i never saw your back before the sun.
i am not even sure you turned your back.
maybe you were spinning the entire time.
i have heard the sun does the same;
like the earth and all the other
planets they ever talked about.
but this is about you and me -
not they - the way i see you,
the way that i have wondered about
the way you see me,
what happened yesterday and ten
thousand years ago; or not.

i remember nothing of your birth,
nor your parentage, nor your presumably
divine youth. of course, you are ageless
as mankind and, though amorphous, saddled
with the shapeliness of woman. are you
beautiful? are you loving? are you sexually

inclined? did you deliver justice to your dear child’s
dearest psyche, castoff and captive far from future harmony’s
happy home? and your son - the pint-sized cherub some call
blind, although he aims each ardent
arrow from his upright bow with such deftness,
indiscriminate and true, no one not a mark,
no heart found undeserving – is he for sale, this
boy? did you have him to hate what he loves? is he
not produced of a tryst you bade planting allgood with
a fluent, fleetfoot, thieving herald, he of the fine, razor
wit, his missives sharp and quick, silver of tongue?

what of your husband? strong, dexterous
armourer to olympic champions, bathed in sweat,
atoil before his volcanic forge beneath the towering,
storied mountain’s iron fundament, jeweler of heavenly
wives and exquisite nymphs, he who transcended
ugliness and handicap to receive you in hot
blooded holy matrimony, that blessed bond
consecrated by the high and hoary father of all;
did he net you in his own diaphanous bed with that wily
warrior because you foresaw the day when jesus
proclaims: “there will be no marriage in the kingdom of heaven!”
or do you simply like a languid roll in the harvest’s
hay, a good fuck and the rough embrace of leathery,
dangerous, blood-stained hands? where are
the pair of towhead tots you bore your
wise and cynic soldier? was it his affection that
inspired you to proscribe a certain beauty contest where mortal
lass bewitched a mortal lad, a choice that spawned
lean years of murderous treachery and heroic
pandemonium, a genesis of venomous plunder and rape
miscarried, unjust, dwindling the splendid, bounteous
booty bounding the thousand isles describing your old,
known world by man and god alike? and was that you i spied,
bedazzling, painted, in the raw, birthday suited, strawberry
tresses all in ringlets, all modesty in your mien, your veil
afloat upon a bluster, slender feet toeing the rippled contours
corrugating a gargantuan mollusk’s half-wide open, glossy shell?

i know how foolish i am to question
you, my love, placing earthly
ethics in your stellar
sphere. but you’re still coming round
after millennia upon millennia to challenge
our one and only, ever-luminous and free
giver of light, to compel he cast your shadow
‘pon this wanting, rolling rock. people got
their war on, still. new science usurps
spirit, the old math don’t add up. folk
keep calling angels to pay their past due bills…

pundits say you’re cold and icy,
barren, bereft of life, a bright
reflection best beheld to the north -
nestled in your dark aerie - when
engulfed by winter night. ancient
mariners once hung to your shining
skirts, sailing south on seven seas.
you say nothing, i need nothing (that i
hear); we’re even stevens, then; just, like
two peas. once i wondered why you left me,
when it was i who left you.

o, wan and sultry goddess, second planet
from the sun, i know you are no spry and sprightly temple
whore grown crass and venal crone. i shall dispel these myths
they spread - the fables they learn, these tattles they tale,
pure scandal, lies - unashamed. i shall share the luster you kindle,
i shall see all in beloved spirit, all unflagging happiness,
will all in childish grace; and if not, i’ll touch wicked
illusions, taste my fears’ confusions burning me, inhuman,
my buried bellyache to burst. o, god, o goddess,
how do i love you, too, sweet-tempered, pleasing venus,
precious gift, my kindness, faith, my strength? o joy!
here, you are not my problem, where there is none.
i could never make you workhorse, nor a warship; tho
you protect – you soothe – me, you are not my slave;
you are:
my every balm and unguent.
my undying peace,
my butterfly,
my innards’ healing salve.

Hudson, New York
Venus transit the Sun
June 2004