Shakespeare in Love
Thinking I would suffocate from heat, or dehydrate
into a shriveled leaf, I wanted to crawl under a rock
as those little animals in the desert, content
to watch the world turn when I felt you cross over.
When rain came I was wanton to drown—
allow mud to engulf my shoulders, blocking
sound to sleep so I could join you, rolling
through light as milkweed until we were home.
Yet, just as heat is abated by rain, thus is rain
by heat, always in time to push the clock forward
another minute. How easily my hands could navigate
my fate as effortlessly as the natural order of things;
I keep thinking of Romeo; had he only waited—
just a few more seconds—before swallowing
the contents of that poisonous vial. . .
what then would've become of them.
Is this how Shakespeare felt while penning his grief—
too much of a coward to surrender to his own death?