one day, shams, I can write a love poem
a happy poem, a poem that i know is
merited by the one it describes
because he loves me so much more
than I love him.
Isn't that the way of things for women?
nothing works until a man is consumed
with desire, consumed with the sickness
that life is meaningless without?
He wakes up and holds me in his mind,
a virus of the blood that has changed
the very plasma of his cells.
There is no day without me.
The other dimensions are so small,
I could hold them in the palm of my hand,
and yet my eyes don't see them in
front of me here, right at the end of
my breath.
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