by Zoe Mitchell

Women always do this: their hearts get broken
once and they build a shrine in its chambers.

All sights for sore eyes blinked a denial,
the contours of other men untasted

on their arid tongues. Grief makes a desert
where silence echoes on a pristine plain

and no green buds blossom to scent the air.
They rest in a mausoleum cold-filled

with unborn children, haunting shades of lost
loves and missed chances. You’re not those women.

Open those blue eyes: here is a man
who demands you sacrifice your mourning.

Indifferent stars will stay in their orbit
and shine just the same if you arch your back

against his sure hand and the jasmine night.
Listen to the music of your own sighs.

Let that passion drag through your bones and taste
the black charcoal that is your past sorrow.

Light the hearth, blanket your bed in senses
then let him love you. What else could you lose?