Published in The Owl
1st Place Winner in the Shipsey Poetry Contest, 2021
If Venus de Milo were hollow, she would tell me
that a storm of moths would rush out of her arms
if I traced her cheekbone with the warmth of my thumb,
that there would be as many moths peppering the sky
as there are divots and notches speckling her frame.
She would tell me that, if I were to fill the gashes
in her torso with my fingertips, she would bring her arms
to my face, tenderly lock her hands around my neck,
and shatter the key. Hollow, she tells me that if I were
to fill her empty chest with sanguine anemones,
she might be reminded of how she was once picturesque
and whole. I whisper to her that I have no anemones,
but I would be blessed to plant a peony behind her ear
after parting her cascading sea of hair. I imagine
that after her eyes break their study of mine,
she silently agrees, and watches my lips
as sultry words of adoration dribble
out of my mouth like a rough, rich red wine.
Jaden Fong 