Excerpt: Anatomical Venus by Courtney Bates-Hardy

The Birth of an Anatomical Venus

First, death:
not that of her father
fallen into the sea
to birth her from foam
but her own.

Hundreds of bodies for one slashed beauty,
some pulled from the water, some from dirt,
wrapped in a shroud and dragged to an artist,
the salt of the sea mingling with decay.

This is no Botticelli.
This is the work of blood and bone,
fat and gristle, covered by paint and wax.

An artist shapes the molds:
heart, lungs, and kidneys—
pearls for her new cavity.

Now, a plaster cast,
pour the virgin wax
and colour the pale marrow
with lead and cadmium.

Stuff her hollows with wood,
rag, and wire; varnish the hair to her head.
Insert the eyelashes,
glaze her body for a reflective edge.

Recline her on a plush cushion and arrange
a pose, a delicate hand to preserve
her false modesty. Remove
her breastplate, open to study.

Adorn her with pearls;
from the sea, she will rise.

Prayer to an Anatomical Venus
“I need to love this self in pain…”
–Sonya Huber

If I have to suffer,
let me be beautiful
while I writhe.

If I have to be in pain,
let me have pleasure
in equal parts.

Let this pain pass quickly
and give way to a day
I might enjoy.

Let me have pain now
but not later, not
when I am with her.

If I take this pill now,
will it satisfy the flame?

Should I take it now or later
or again? Did I take it
before or again or not at all?

If I sit another way
or stretch this muscle or that
or stand and walk a while
can I continue writing this poem?

I am tired of writing
my body. Another line
will not quench this fire.

I’d like to write about
the sweetness of her mouth
but I don’t yet know
whether she’ll taste
like an apple or a peach.

On Living with Chronic Pain
              (for the Pain Poets)

Healing is not a cure;
it’s an oft-repeated lie.

The nerves in my neck
will never be what they were.

Some days, I will live with no pain,
as if I didn’t roll my car twice
and walk away.

Some days, I will live with some pain,
pain I pretend I don’t feel
while I work, laugh, even exercise.

Other days, I am all pain:
flames spreading from neck to shoulder
to head, blocking out all the light in the room.

I am a torch in the dark, burning alone,
but the more I look, I see pinpricks
of light in the distance.

Here we are, they say,
             we are right here with you.