I composed a militant monologue that year
full of trenchant words that regarded their
neighbors with a zesty suspicion. The
vowels felt threatened and w__ld d_s_pp__r
randomly. Randy soldiers polished their spears -
the ones made of flesh too - and hapless women
called it survival and spread their legs. The flowers
were particularly red that year and everyone preferred
the songs of the violins. Courage became a coveted quality
and I hear the Apothecary sold it in clear glass jars filled with
tiny blue pills. The battlefields were not very far away
and the cannons provided nice lullabies (though the lack of
stars was noticed). The luckiest ones, however,
were the poets. Inspiration and the beauteous Muse lurked
around every corner. Tragedy sold cheaply those days so everyone
got a broken heart. It was in fashion.

Dearest -

I can call you that, right? I can evince the softest shade of emotion for you? You don’t mind? No? Okay then.

Dearest,

My heart is a pomegranate. Red. Ripe. Ready to burst. On your tongue. In your hands. I

( let’s pretend I exist in the singular, worn body and tired eyes aside)

am cohesively yours. In parts and together. A fingernail from my left hand, my right ear, my belly and my ankle. All yours. A patched up woman. And even though you are not mine

(and never will be but this is a dream so I shall forgive you that)

I will pretend you are. Your smile, your skin rough against my cheeks, your hands on my body as though you are shaping me to your desires - your very own sculptor

(maybe I am half stone, I suspect I am)

to display or veil.

(You look at me as if the interlude is over. It is over? Oh.)

The curtains flutter in the afternoon breeze and you are giving me your public smile. The one that says there is distance between us and measures it as a mile too far from your heart to mine.

(Why do you never say goodbye when you leave?)