*for Saartjie Saartman/Hottentot Venus

london never wrote a poem for you
because john keats couldn't find the words to fit around your hips
and the blue in london's eyes made them blind
in the sun
that you were created from
that’s why they couldn't see the sonnet that god scribbled
on the small of your back
so they stared and they giggled
while sewing corsets around their shapeless lives
and 'round their shapeless wives
men dreamt of sliding down the slope of your breasts
landing in the nook that separated you from normality
with hopes that your musical tongue would teach them how to dance

they named you venus
for a reason

despite what they have been teaching
in universities and women magazines
their daughters still manage to nip and tuck the truth
you were their prototype
and they're still trying to figure out a way to clone
your bones
into their genes
perfectly
because they know
you were the first super model
your body was made an art museum
by france
way before they fell in love with
the sweat on joesphine baker’s thighs
or the curve of nina simone's lips when she sang
it was you that they held on to
even after death
they made your soul their home
but they never wrote a poem
because they were too busy
searching for the meaning of life
inside of you
men hid their secret confessions
lodged between your cervix and uterus
because your body was proof that god existed

and you became their messenger

carrying their burdens
until you became so heavy that you drowned in their sins
forgetting to leave the correct pronunciation
of your name behind
so that we, your descendants
with hips just as wide and lovely
could honor you properly

as your memory rest
back in the cradle of dark soil
i am whispering this poem
towards the east
hoping that you can hear me

you are beautiful.

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