Botticelli

He sketched my hip like a line of horizon.
He painted a wash like the tide coming in.
He painted my back like a swept away sand dune.
He painted my feet like a couple of wings.

I took off my clothes like a jigsaw puzzle
like a Russian doll, piece by piece.
I folded my skirt with a lacy tussle.
I kicked off my shoes like a flight of geese.

He was my Botticelli.
He was my first and my last.
He was my Vulcan and Adonis.
He was my Jupitar and Mars.