Venera

You grumble

that it’s humid.

You’re drooping

from the flashes

of the night &

nothing else.

I’ve felt

the melt of foundries,

the rooftop

hauling shingles

in the sun,

the searing

of a pan

without my glove.

I watch you sag

across the room

clad in a charcoal

negligée, like you wore

when you were 20,

just for the

sheer excitement

of it all.

Darling, I’m afraid

this will not do it.

Diaphanous

always comes

with a best-before.

Please go back &

don your flaxen blouse,

the one that’s

darned with wool,

we’ll play amid the

cool of cards & cribbage—

there’ll be no need

for fans.

You see, I heard the weatherman

of the Soviets

back in 1976, say the broiling

Venusian surface

is 400-plus degrees—

Celsius, so it sounded

not-so-hot;

right before I steamed

our shaggy carpet,

our stains of love

imbibed

without a sweat.

Andreas Gripp

April 14, 2025

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