Venus lies on the kitchen table, water in a white
slip. I bow my head, kiss her hip bone, round belly.
She does not see me. She waits for Mr. Suntan, a
square-jawed beefy man. He’s been everyone's main dish
but hers.
She tells me to take off my slip and wash it in the
sink. To lie and say it's hers. That will bring him to
his knees. And to hush, or her husband will hear.
There’s nothing I will not do. I stand, half-naked, my
own small breasts and round belly exposed, lathering
my own slip with the bar of soap in the stained sink.
He does find her, and kneels by soft ripples of skin.
I’m left to watch the yellowed slip tumble in the
dryer.
There is no more water. There is no more milk.