Cretatus Domina

e-strange:


I have no poetry, for you, fragile lover,
there are no sonnets in the hem of your skirt;
no odes tucked behind your ear
or in the hollows of your clavicle

I have no stanzas
-no sextains or quatrains-
no rhythm to match this arrhythmia

Let it be the measure of your import
that you have killed my words,
cut the heart out of my artistry
and left before me so many
beautiful, blank pages.