Venus de Milo

 

Like the wind or sea

on a traumatic day,
she lashes out
at everyone and everything
in her path.

 

She doesn’t know why
but the woman within
wants to blame the exterior
for what she can’t see or grasp–
only feel.

Head of a household once,
she owned the keys
to door and gate. Her heels
left the etch marks
of a Hellenic woman  on the stairs.

Composed, she controlled

the room’s elements 
of light and shade. Heat and air.

 No one questioned

her choice or challenged
her presence --

until now. Her mind and bones

are chipped. The fragmented
marble of antiquity
that can’t filter echoes
or cast a maven’s shadow.

Yet, on the worst of days

she still knows the white
aroma of wine
and a Casablanca lily.