seduction of tears

she’s like that. she falls hard for a man till she hurts herself.

I know enough about her to make her a story. she’s a woman
by the sculptured allure of her beauty, in the image of Galatea,
by the poetry of her heart & the unyielded tears, waiting, in her
eyes; waiting for a sad tomorrow.

there is a warning that a lady tells her sisters: never love a poet.
yet she comes to poetry to be seduced, & is taken by the seduction
of her tears. she can’t make love to the poem, so she makes love
to the poet.

she removes her fashions & lays herself like a temple harlot on
his bed, to be ravaged in the way of a sonnet-maker.

I have been the seducer. then I lean back in my chair, in my loose shirt,
drinking & smoking, regarding the stolen kisses, the absconded embraces,
the last cry of emission (submission) that makes it sex. lusting in her
lurid nude photographs, beauty that my eyes struggle to hold.

and I, being a poet, am made of loneliness;
only this, & nothing more.

woman  –  how the passion burns there.
how I mourn the word:  woman…


(Art: onepixart)