Venus in the Year 2020

She is in us, this woman with a skull face
and feathers for hair.

She rises over the bones of her past
with a slow shield
and a fast axe.

From the crest of her walking stick,
hair streams in the wind
as though head and staff
have traded adornment.

She has painted detachment on her face
and tucked emotions under a skin cloak
shredded by the teeth of her life.

She wears her seeds
wound around her long throat,
streaming down her front
to end in a pendant
made from bones
whose stories
only she
knows.

Behind her and beside her,
the skeletons of her memories
and riches
in hide pouches.

With few secrets left,
she stands sentinel
on the mountain.
If she could fly?
She has plucked
her wings
for ornament.

She
stands.

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