Love Sonnet Gone Wrong
Lizzy your letters do not reveal about being homeless, living in a Chrysler station wagon with no seat belts.
I too deserve a Moorish Portuguese castle.
Was time different then, moments between a woman and a man were something other worldly?
Naked I wait as a noblewoman in an Etruscan painting,
laying upon Carrera marble in Bal a Versailles and gauze.
A mind wanders back to that city of stone.
In the days after the floods, as young lovers we waded in the muddy waters taking the ancient furniture of strangers to the third floor.
He told me, “Strip down your clothes.”
Then he kissed me softy.
I did not care about the douse in cholera water. We survived.
With only scurf upon your skin for protection, let the artist heat the wax of encaustic and smooth it over me, for it will open my tristful pours.
I memorized a Rumi poem for him.
“I impetrate you to hear the ruby speak in his native tongue.” He kept his head down looking at his fingers on the Xbox controller for Black Ops.
“Fire up ovens of boiling sweat burning desire and cool slowly the pigments added.” He did not divagate.
“Use minerals from Madagascar and places you know nothing of.” Still he has no answer.
“Break into someone’s house when they are away on vacation. Pretend the children belong to you. Tell them many lies about the future.” That one got his attention.
“Shut up I am playing.”
Becoming his Telni in Devdasi tradition, ask for more every day.
Then one day he is done with you. He might call you on his cell phone to say, “I don’t want you anymore.”
Do not call to Saint Sebastian to stop the bleeding to shore up the holes in your heart.
He fails to listen carefully.
Send a chorus of attorneys.
They know nothing of sonnets only billable hours.
The finest doctor thinks you loony.
They blame it on lead, radiation and chemo therapy from cadmium.
Drinking mithridate from a Riedel decanter will not tear out the poison heart of diamond.
Only it will grow harder.