the birth of venus & other apologies

my heart is most like the big
white shell that venus is standing
on in Botticelli's painting-- 
the other half that snapped & snapped
when out came a god-girl. i'm sorry
for clean dishes i've broken. i'm sorry
for not visiting. i'm sorry for coming
into this world fully grown like
venus, too much too cover up with 
orange hair. i'm sorry for rust dying
my hair & staining the sink. 
under knuckles. the shells on my desk,
none large enough to shrink back into.
am i a body too cumbersome to be undone?
i'm sorry you have to knit backwards
to fix where the stitch was dropped.
i'm sorry for breasts-- cover her
quickly. i don't know what the painting
is supposed to be about but i want
to cut her hair off & drop it in
the water-- watch the strands grow
fins & swim. i have yet to see you 
in the spring. i have yet to learn 
how to not split that shell on exit,
does she have clear skin? does her face
wash have little blue beads in it?
where is the blood? i'm sorry far that
too. for hora of spring, the goddesses
who keep the portions of time like slices
of plain cheese cake-- wax paper in between.
the blanket to cover me. i'm sorry 
for nakedness & for apologizing too
much & not enough. i'm standing there too,
standing in the big half-shell heart.
what i want to know is how she's not
crying. how venus could be born
as a grown woman & not react
at first with tears to being so
much all at once. i wish i was 
a better lover. i'm sorry for 
cellphone & for glass. for my wrists 
& for the other half of the shell
(wherever she may be). i love girls.
i love women. i'm sorry that 
a part of myself will always be 
in conversation with ways of breaking.
isn't that what birth is though?
an apology? a break? my mother
split open like a geode
& now there's nothing left
of her but hair that has gills
& swims in the rain puddles. 
is it raining now or is that just 
venus. i want to take her inside.
i want to lay her on my bed, hair
freshly cut. i want to tell her
that there will be no more men.
i want to apologize until we
both become portions of time--
put on each other's clothing--
an over-sized shirt. a pleated
skirt. keep the sea shell on
the desk. my heart my heart.
the goldfish in the sink.
my mother, knitting a naked quilt
to throw over us.