Aphrodite! You are red wine!
Ha-ha provoking, headache-making!
You are life and swallowing life
while running up some ancient stone steps
and probably almost choking.
I am not as tough-minded as a pope
when I see you in your jog-bra.
Nor do I want to be. Nor did I want to be
who they tied the bib on in the fancy place
but when they brought the bowl
with half a lobster and lots of clams
and must be three pounds of butter in the broth,
I was happy with who I was.
Botticelli too saw the connection
between you and bouillabaisse
which means “boiled to a kiss.”
No it doesn’t, idiot.
Oh who cares about right or wrong
when Aphrodite flashes her nipples?
Now that I am no longer a hyperbolic youth
able to make love to you 37 times an afternoon,
perhaps my odes are better in recompense.
Here is a semitransparent pebble I picked up
on the way to my EKG.
Probably worthless but it is my heart
so take it. Step inside the lightbulb
of my fermentation, Aphrodite,
and tell me of the heating ducts of your day.
Put your eyelash on my pillow,
I will do whatever you say.