Last Love

For years I chose the man to suit the instant,

from good guy to goat boy,

dreadlocked to crewcut. Not one could bridal me.

In place of lace veil,

I peered from bandage gauze. And if,

in rage, some suitor

tore that off, the red sun was a scald, and I felt

scalped and rocket-shot

onto the nearest flight. So everyone I kissed

left hurt. One man broke

the table I served him bread on. Another

claimed my heart

was arsenic at its core. When my last love came,

he slid a palm across

mine eyes, lent me his mouth

(a bitten plum)

lay his head in the middle of me, bent me

to that. Nights now,

my face rests on the meadow of his chest --

so I’m a loose-petaled poppy

blown open, a girl again, for the first time

hearing the earth’s heartbeat.