Lori Lamothe: Virtual Botticelli

The model on the refrigerator door
emerges out of the sea
like Venus after a tummy tuck
and a boob job.
Nobody’s floating in from the wings
to cover that body with a scarlet cloak
and if there are any zephyrs on the scene
they’re off camera
splicing that baby-smooth butt
with the selfies their wives
posted on Facebook.
There isn’t any cellulite
in the heaven of perfect pixels
and somewhere in America
three Graces are vomiting
the apples that tempted them
to bite something tangible.

In torn shorts and faded t-shirt
I lean in toward fantasy
and open the door to escape,
my craving haloed
by the light of an artificial angel.
Reality melts on my tongue.



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