by Margaret Haas
So make love to me in a cave on a mountain
while Juno whispers lines of poetry
into your ear, my wandering hero,
so heave me into the sunlight
and leave me, while your godly words
harden to my shape like poured cement.
Cement? I lingered in poetry’s corners
to pluck words from the mouth of a god. 
But your laughter stilled like cooling wax,
pushed me from your shores even as Fate
loosed my anchors. What man could moor 
his heart in so cold a she-king’s harbor?
Leaving me was your fate; keeping you was mine.
Like two sides of a coin flipped into the air,
we could not both land with our faces in the sun.
You were my taste of immortality. The words
you kissed into me flowed through my chilled blood
as I writhed on the dirt floor of our marriage bed.
Who said marriage? Who said love?
None of my promises were meant to be kept, 
swept from the mouth of a cave, the mouth of a queen.
You are a palm tree in the snow. You are a bluebird 
drawn with a single blue crayon. Poetry without promise,
eyes that taste like eyes—why long for more?
Why? No one, not even you, filled me up. 
A taste will never be enough. I want everything:
Love in all its forms, or Fire and all its parts.