It is dangerous to love a poet
who blows emotion into rainbow animals;
orange giraffes, pink dogs, purple monkeys–
her balloon bestiary handed off to anyone
who stops to admire her skill and their lightness.
That some are shaped to your likeness is completely accidental,
she says, bouncing your persona palm to palm until it pops.
It is troubling to love a poet
who paints seduction in shadows
on metaphorical flesh, concentric patterns
traced on paper when the lines you want her to read out loud
are written by vessels under your skin, shivered
and goosebumped for lips busy kissing or cursing a muse.
You will always be the interloper in that marriage.
It is lonely to love a poet
who stays up until dawn, choosing the right shade of red
to spraypaint your name on the moon, her graffiti
bold enough to read from any bedroom window–
no solace when her side of the bed echoes scent
and is empty of presence. In her chase of the right word,
she will not hear you murmur her name as you sleep.
It is useless to confront a poet.
She will take the pain you bring,
clay thrown on the wheel of her vision
spun and shaped to perfection,
glazed with a sad you will never see,
fired to a form that sings unbreakable passion.
It is joy to love a poet.
Her words lift from beyond the depth of bone
to wing from lips, floating each shade
in the spectrum of feeling your name evokes,
and you are caught, dazzled
and doomed as any moth or firefly, chasing
and breathing the lit cloud only she owns.