I wrote this one about 8 years ago, and I'm trying to rewrite it.

To You with Your Thing in Your Hand

Aphrodite's turned 50.
She creeps out of the ocean, and
this time no one comes
running with gauze.

Her eyes no longer crook like the finger of a Penthouse Pet
but take your measure and look
away.

Breasts
that once invited,
rising like bread to your tongue,
have hardened into
wooden paddles.

You've been bad.

Black bees hum in the back of her throat.

What was that, Honey?
you say.

The beekeeper smiles
While there's still time

Run
and take it with you.