I Will Not Write Poems About You
You were unashamed,
and I was wounded.
Spider-dancing a way in
and residing as if you'd always been.
The nerve of you.
I thought I felt the ghost touch of
love
that web that enfolded me,
dangerous, but beautiful to look at.
But darling, I will never again confuse
love
with simply filling in those empty spaces.
I will not write poems about you.
I will not remember you in that way.
I'll keep you in locked rooms,
and old trunks,
scatter pieces of our pages
and make a map so that I'll remember
to never return.
I'd like to burn those words instead
but you would like that too much.
You'd just think yourself a martyr.
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