I am not worth the shot
Bird of the pulse,
The master or the collar,
And I will not write of myself
As a red, red rose.
I am only worth the sleeping eggs
Unhatched at my wrists--
Beauties mumble in white domes
And dream of cracking, popping
Like star explosions, matter suddenly
Existing and no need for force,
All wires inside holding hands and jumping,
Tripping in the race, building the color blocks
To map out a face that will leave stains on my windows
And the rifle in the corner ready to spring.
Author notes
written as a response to poems by Emily Dickinson and Elizabeth Barrett Browning, where they talk about love being like a bird of the pulse.
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