we make up about ourselves, others
who seem intent to invade our hearts
take no prisoners as they steal the gold and jewels
meant for the next generation. What can I do
to preserve the peace on royal grounds
without my beheading by the public?
Metaphors made for lover’s actions lack punch
reality of what truly makes them tic-tock their clocks
the inner workings of gears grinding until their face
display repeatedly says, “Times’ up!”
Stories I make up about each potential lover
pale – but comfort in the desperate moments
before dawn. As I roll over, wonder,
will she be the kind to share truth
before laying down, rolling over, playing
possum, pouncing on me with eyes piercing
dissecting until my heart is cut out for mere pleasure?
Opening one’s soul – if I still own mine –
makes sense only if the fables we concoct
become . . . sensual, passionate, truthful
for more than fifteen minutes.