This poem is a fickle mistress, a wandering
soul. She might stay awhile, and smile. She
might go home to the moon at any moment.
She’ll leave a note, but only the most tre
-bled clefs, no rest, no selah. She’s got a mind
of her own and lipsticked lips that say she’s
a gypsy girl, a swirl of indigo on a disappearing
page. The gist? She’ll jilt you, tilt you sideways
and leave you wanting. Haunted. Daunted be
-yond what you can bear. She’ll wear your shirt
and the scent of her will linger forever. She’s a
goddess, and you’ll long for her long dark hair
until you can no longer breathe, nor believe
there is anything else in the world but her sound
-less stare. It’s time to quit her, sit her down and
say the tirade of things on your too-full tongue,
lash her with words and switch and pitch her
back where she belongs. But you won’t. Oh, you
won’t. Because she’s a temptress, a seductive sylla
-bled siren whose song you must swallow whole,
whose soul has sifted into your bones, in sacred
befuddled bliss. And if this ain’t love, what is?
Poetic Asides November Chapbook Challenge, day 28.