Presence

Presence

We’re told the age of ancient gods and goddesses is gone

over and done with, the stuff of fancy

replaced by newer varieties of objects d’arte and religious experience

singles formed and served up for the modern nomad on the go who’s

still stuck in the middle of a heat wave,

camels and drums traded for iPads and Range Rovers.

Venus once rose from the ocean leaving those who saw her nakedness kerfluzzled and

gasping for breath even as rivulets of salt water made their way down her nape

along her arms and dripping from her pinkie

to a belt of sea foam that lapped at her navel:

you descended the stairs as diaphanous as Aphrodite or even Mithras

or perhaps a Duchess of Granada

shining in your own non-reflected glow, your deep brown eyes flashing,

your blue dress cleverly yet discretely accentuating,

its knots hinted at though did not reveal, as yet, what lay beyond.

A droplet of salty sweat made its way made its way unchecked to your décolletage:

though protected by a brooch it

could not deflect my stare even as I tried not to  

lose my breath or fall on my face

my Achilles heel discovered.