open letters: #1I thought I found you then,
once when cosine was as inscrutable
as the ellipse of my heart.
Did you know,
and by the way this is true,
hearts become ellipses
when swollen with grief?
I'm six matches old now, six dashing bachelors
who I will not marry. Suddenly I'm a matchmaker's dream
and my father's joy. The foghorn of eligibility
is mine, a mantle innate to my kind – the very earth I walk on
may be booby-trapped with marriage.
I don't fight your coming, Love, believe me I could be glad
if you were my cliché. Just don't fight me
if I refuse to spoon with you
the first night.
Poetry by Arti
Read 715 times
Written on 2009-09-15 at 14:35
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