My Poem Speaks

I will leave sorrows for the journalists to report-- the way the cat deposits dead birds on my WELCOME mat. I will pass on riddles like: What is the survival rate of betrayal among women who were once father-less girls? Or do broken promises ache like broken bones? Now, I prefer only to study: the sound of your breath giving life to the room, the way your strong hand grasps mine as you recover, and the tastes of morning after I've filled my mouth with you.