Somehow poems come for me in threes


All lovers set us riddles, leave us clues,
threads that we follow deep into a maze
then strand us in their heart. Where letters blaze
firescripts we cannot read. We always lose

these contests. Sometimes we might lose our head.
Old lovers watch from spikes, blind bird-pecked eyes.
Perhaps they told wrong truths, perhaps weak lies.
I’ll never know just what it was I said.

Her anger firing poison from red cheeks
that stings and puzzles me, leaves me confused
for moments later on my lips, left bruised,
her kiss. I’d hoped intrigued for that nine weeks.

Love ends in torment, then revives each day.
The sweet pain’s passed, and never goes away.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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