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

He was my man in the moon.
My man on the beach.
My off-stage lover.
My left behind after-image.