Sappho, Our Lady Of Longing

Love, that great deceiver

that great door-slammer, that great window-opener

that great-great-carpenter,

that great-great-great-oarsman,

honing rippling forearms and bulging

pectorals, straining

hard against the temptation

of violence, rowing

predator over water under

sky. blue

is the color of heartbreak, dead

is the shade of life sprouting

upwards out of shiny

shed snakeskin, two round

holes where the eyes once were.

the eyes once were so

wet, so dark, so


they saw nothing but Love

already growing fresh

under sloughed skin,

tender green fighting

for emergence under

weight of deadly


Love germinates, ruminates,

obfuscates itself into oblivion, lovingly

confounding those who love

to wonder, wondering why some

do not dare


Love the rototiller, Love the praying mantis,

Love the jungle cat just bored enough to kill–

Cupid, merciless slaughterer, deranged and

happy, triggering chaos in the name of highest

order, leaking doubts into the hourglass, feasting

every night on hot, young

flesh. fresh red meat hung

in the window of

Love The Butcher

every romantic’s worst

nightmare/daydream, sickest

fever at normal body temp, slowest

most painful hello-and-goodbye…

feelings are fleeting if not caught

just so. Love

reminds us not to remember too well,

or eyes will well and turn so wet,

dark, important

green fighting dark in Love’s most aliveness,

life and love fighting, ruthless, endless

hearty in murder, exquisite in torture, us conned

into the epicenter once more by

feathered display and a free first hit. Genes

have nothing to do with it, chemicals

don’t even come close:

it’s that damned little freak with the arrows

bringing mankind to its ruin

so we might at last


then pray


to grow

Published by Hannah

Just yer average girl next door.

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