Did you know, Alexandros,
that when you chiseled her hips
you cast aside the confidence of her sisters?
That when you decided she would be
just that much thinner,
you held a century's breath
and cracked ribs with corsets?
Did the name of Venus
conjure lust in your soul?
Is that why you tore off her robe?
Did you know, Alexandros,
that with your steady hand
you changed the shape of beauty?
Did you wrestle it from the hearts of homely mothers
and press it down to fit your mold?
Or did you steal it from your youngest daughter's smile
and replace it with vain ambition?
Did you cry when she told you she was ugly,
that your sculpture had transformed her to swine?
Was it then that you fell into your lover's arms until they broke?
Did you know, Alexandros,
that stone is a poor canvas for beauty?