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.