Another Poet Writes About Love

Another poet writes about love

and I’m puzzled.

It’s out there for him

in what he calls a lady.

He says she touches him

lightly on the ribs,

but I’m sure it’s just his idea

that’s touched. Something’s missing

in his conception of completion.

He wants her to bring it to him,

be Eve at nightfall coming home,

completing him with tenderness.

I have been with women enough to want

tenderness igniting, sending the ribs

out to their filled extension

and sparks of flame

down the dry tendrils of my arms.

I want to die and rise and never be

completed in tenderness.

I want to burn the covering plants

to the ground and mulch them under.

I want good black earth instead of love.