Thrush Poetry Journal
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Amanda Gunn

Venus 

Oh miracle, oh Venus as the one 
of Willendorf, now washed 

in sweat, beyond  
the possibility of motherhood. Tonight   

you’ve blessed my living room, reclined upon 
the couch as on 

a chaise. And stripped of all the things 
that make you seem 

a paradox: the working boots, the hems 
that draw you in. What’s left? 

A hip that splays and asks 
for no excuse. A breast that slacks against 

a hairy pit. The open hand you’ve used 
to every end, as when we woke 

to please yourself and me. The heavy knee, the soft 
and massive belly. Here, 

naked, you’re free. I wonder what it means 
for you to have 

this body you were dealt 
if, when you dress, it’s armor that you wear, made 

for a man. And what it means that I 
should love you best 

when you’re bare: a goddess, 
calm, at rest.




Amanda Gunn is the recipient of the 2014 Auburn Witness Poetry Prize Honoring Jake Adam York. She lives and teaches in Baltimore, Maryland, where she is an MFA candidate and Owens Scholars Fellow in The Writing Seminars at Johns Hopkins University. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Redivider, Southern Humanities Review, New South, and others.





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