The grass fingered my knees
when fear, iron-limbed,
passed over my head.

I hid my collarbone with
my hands, covering
your favorite part of me

that leaves me
feeling naked when not
clothed with your eyes.

I bend under the murmurs
from those engines that mar
the sky like the scratch on

my cheekbone from the
nail in the doorframe
that I keep meaning to

remove. You would
have touched me more
gently than the world.

I will hide what
belongs to you in me,
until you come to draw it out again.

05/08/2008

Author's Note: Inspired by Lovelace's famous poem "To Lucasta, on Going to the Wars." You know, the one that says, "I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honor more."

Posted on 05/08/2008
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