Venus of Willendorf

Her recline,
so unnatural at first,
her beaded head
undefined
in its ocularity,
her short feet, nearly
bereft of digits, unable
to point us
in the direction she knows,
her thin, folded arms
too tired or reluctant
to show us where mother
lives, where the earth’s
limestone waits in sediment
for her children to
return—
Thirty thousand years the cord has
stretched,
the snap not far off,
the snap that will either
sever us forever from
or pull us
back
into her fertile, stony bosom.