Your silence was the poison I was meant
to take. The gift to shatter the shackles of
desire. And this talon of pain is sent
to tear me that I may know the terror of love.
Not punishment, no. But as a flower
opens to let in the marauding bee,
who comes to plunder in the appointed hour,
for pollen’s sake and a new fertility.
This is a kindness you do me, rooting out
indulgence and the pulp of entitlement.
What are these scenarios about,
but the dissolution of disordered intent?
In such a way your curses are kisses too,
and, denied your love, I learn the heart of you.