Against the Beloved as Wisp
America should be glad I’m not a man, or at least
its little magazines should applaud never
having to hear for sixty years about the one I love
still a boy. This whole matter of age I recognize,
see bloom dropping from my cheeks,
cheeks dropping a little too. But screw rue
and the kind of mouth I’d be forced to make over this.
Better that mouth should kiss out of the wrinkles
still not quite there. I am not a slip, a girl
slender as paring; my love is no boy. The spring
has run into a river; the river runs to the sea.
My love is massive as a silverback, muscled
like Brian Dennehy. The low rich ovals of my song
scorn night and the moon and the troubling trembling
flute of a bird. My song sweeps sorrow’s cupboard bare.