The Venus Hottentot (1825)

I. Cuvier

Science, science, science!Everything is beautiful

blown-up beneath my glass.Colors dazzle insect wings.

A drop of water swirlslike marble. Ordinary

crumbs become stalactitesset in perfect angles

of geometry I'd thoughtimpossible. Few will

ever see what I seethrough this microscope.

Cranial measurementscrowd my notebook pages,

and I am moving closer,close to how these numbers

signify aspects ofnational character.

Her genitaliawill float inside a labeled

pickling jar in the Muséede l'Homme on a shelf

above Broca's brain:"The Venus Hottentot."

Elegant facts await me.Small things in this world are mine.

II.

There is unexpected sun todayin London, and the clouds thatmost days sift into this cagewhere I am working have dispersed.I am a black cutout againsta captive blue sky, pivotingnude so the paying audiencecan view my naked buttocks.

I am called "Venus Hottentot."I left Capetown with a promiseof revenue: half the profitsand my passage home: A boon!Master's brother proposed the trip;the magistrate granted me leave.I would return to my familya duchess, with watered silk

dresses and money to grow food,rouge and powders in glass pots,silver scissors, a lorgnette,voile and tulle instead of flax,cerulean blue insteadof indigo. My brother woulddevour sugar-studded non-pareils,pale taffy, damask plums.

That was years ago. London'scircuses are florid and filthy,swarming with cabbage-smellingcitizens who stare and query,"Is it muscle? bone? or fat?"My neighbor to the left isThe Sapient Pig, "The OnlyScholar of His Race." He plays

at cards, tells time and fortunesby scraping his hooves. Behindme is Prince Kar-mi, who archeslike a rubber tree and stares backat the crowd from under the crookof his knee. A professionalanimal trainer shouts my cues.There are singing mice here.

"The Ball of Duchess DuBarry":In the engraving I lurchtoward the belledames, mad-eyed, andthey swoon. Men in capes and pincenezshield them. Tassels dance at my hips.In this newspaper lithographmy buttocks are shown swollenand luminous as a planet.

Monsieur Cuvier investigatesbetween my legs, poking, prodding,sure of his hypothesis.I half-expect him to pull silkscarves from inside me, paper poppies,then a rabbit! He complainsat my scent and does not thinkI comprehend, but I speak

English. I speak Dutch. I speaka little French as well, andlanguages Monsieur Cuvierwill never know have names.Now I am bitter and nowI am sick. I eat brown bread,drink rancid broth. I miss good sun,miss Mother's sadza. My stomach

is frequently queasy from muttonchops, pale potatoes, blood sausage.I was certain that this would bebetter than farm life. I amthe family entrepreneur!But there are hours in every dayto conjure my imaginarydaughters, in banana shirts

and ostrich-feather fans.Since my own genitals are publicI have made other parts private.In my silence I possessmouth, larynx, brain, in a singlegesture. I rub my hairwith lanolin, and pose in profilelike a painted Nubian

archer, imagining gold leafwoven through my hair, and diamonds.Observe the wordless Odalisque.I have not forgotten my Xhosaclicks. My flexible tongueand healthy mouth bewilderthis man with his rotting teeth.If he were to let me rise up

from this table, I'd spirithis knives and cut out his black heart,seal it with science fluid insidea bell jar, place it on a lowshelf in a white man's museumso the whole world could seeit was shriveled and hard,geometric, deformed, unnatural.