Were you of Stratford-upon-Avon- I would worship you
and carve your words into my skin- oh!
You would be more to me, than night’s eyes last kiss-
You would be the blood from which my mouth forms color-
and the sweat that glistens on the lids of my eyes-
dewy crying and each blood tear would be like the sound
of your laughter through the bedroom door.
But you were not born of that Isle, green and grey-
but at the mouth of another water’s body-
and though you’d make quite a show
of King Chamberlin’s Men,
it would only be to sleep your way through
the line of players, rolling as you do,
upon your back.
In the arms of Christopher Marlowe-
your pages, inked in passionate frenzy-
endear themselves like a bible to me, and-
I would dance, like a wind’s feather
and crash against you like a wave
to hear you speak them aloud
or, perchance to hear you breathe against my ear.
But you are not, Muse. You are not color, nor inky page-
I do not roll your words across my tongue
and drink, like tears, your mysteries.
I do not place you, framed, upon my heart
but push you hard against my skin, and
kneel, bloodied in the gravel of your passions.
Straining through the pain of you, like a mirror.
I should not dare try to move your bones,
but to make just the one stir, I would
unmake myself, the woman that I am-
and disappear to suit your tasteful decor
and if I could give to you that “one thing only”
that stirs up your sinew and your fibers-
I would give up a lifetime of years, to do it once, well.
A far more painful love, this, Muse, poet laureate of my heart-
dwell longly and thus- for Him, I shall sing your praises,
and in his honor, my honor, for you and no other,
will be like a song that he would have written for me-
a dark lady, and nothing like a rose,
dutifully giving what diligence, is owed-
and through my fingers, I will continue on as his voice.
