My love a mirror that twists out of shape,
a burning glass that chars. Passion’s a whip
of words in every relationship
Whose terms my poems set. There’s no escape

from all my public agony. I try
to turn my muses’ mortal flesh to light
but it’s myself I think of when I write,
my words, my love, the thing that will not die.

Scholars won’t know their names, will have to guess
which love inspired which poem. Stumble through
my diaries – read them wrong – as scholars do.
They’ll write so movingly of my distress

but never think of how all poets lie
or how each sonnet made my muses cry.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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2 Responses to HARSH

  1. That is really elegant and sharp: thank you.

  2. lokifan says:

    Fantastic, and very much on my mind lately.

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