Love poem,
written backwards right to left,
filed into the edges of your teeth,
tattooed on the ridge of your spine.
It shows in the filth
under your fingernails, proof we tried
to plant something lasting,
Miry, like we never got our solid
ground.
Love poem,
Braille bumps in steel,
because you never learned how to be soft;
I thought I could teach you to look
with your hands, but Braille rises instead
like goosebumps: my skin,
every time you tried to read me. Sight left you
blind.
Love poem,
war paint streaked down your parley flag.
I sent no messenger, came alone
to capture your castle, to set my flag
above yours. All’s fair in love.
And war: your love poem in the drums.
Battle is joined, my love, our armies have forgotten
speech.
Love poem,
sewn into your shroud, with stitches
like tears, like tiny seed pearls.
Carved into the granite,
your tombstone as unyielding as you, implacable,
eternal, like the words you promised,
like love was a white dress and I was queen for a
day.
The Wanderer 