“An Aversion to Love Poems” or “Matthew” (Sestina)
If I ever wrote love poems,
Breaking away from the usual destruction and death;
To peel away my jaded, broken skin
Like that of a tremendous fruit,
I would recall, in verse, your heart within me
And your endearing tendency to fail.

The faith I have in you will never fail,
But like Persephone, your fate is that of tragic poems,
Of warm life and bitter, shallow death.
Oh! The way the tempting flora scented your skin,
And the everlasting sticky-sweetness of the seedy fruit.
As you ascend, I know you will bring your blue-skied joy to me.

The colors of the sunset mean nothing to me,
They pale in comparison, they undoubtedly fail.
Only the birth of your star brings me sighs like poems.
You mount your chariot, prouder than death
And like Apollo, your golden sphere warms my untouched skin
As you crest my horizon, pregnant with the glorious life-fruit.

Like a fantastically plump fruit,
I have trembled in your wind. Me,
Forever standing on the banks of your tumescent river without fail,
The coin on my tongue as sweet as poems,
Buys my way into the kingdom of death,
And the water of the river felt like tears against my skin.

And here I thought it fine to rest you against my skin;
To bloom from my bosom, to blossom like fruit.
The name “leda” had not meant anything to her, or me.
In aviary disguise you cannot fail.
But unlike Hera, my tie to you flows like poems,
And I will celebrate this gradual death.

But within passion and courage there is no death;
Only the sick hypnosis of your heartbeat on my skin.
In spring mornings I dream of savoring you like fruit,
And of the day you leave your island for me.
Your Artemis eyes tell me (with lies) that we will not fail,
But that our rhythm is the stuff of endless poems.

But words do die—like love, like me.
They grow tough like aged skin.
And because of that, I will never write love poems.