At the Hands of a Poet

At the Hands of a Poet

 

Neruda heats me up with
“I want
to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.”

 

But which
does the poet love more:
his lover, or his words?

 

To be loved by a poet
is to be pulled apart like a roast chicken,
licked clean to the bone.

 

Lovers of poets feed the insatiable,
letting as much blood
as they are able to and still survive.

 

Under the longing gaze of those
who covet their place,
the lovers of poets are pale and silent.

 

So much bruised fruit, so many crushed petals.

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