Your welcome mat is removed.
Take your cold, determined blasphemy
and seal yourself in your tomb.
Take the memory she had of your loveliness
and mutilate it, mutate it into your true face –
a hundred still births, lined up with all eyes open, dead,
before even beginning.
Take the grain from her garden. Take her cat while
she is sleeping. You can take
and trade her trust
to pay homage to your psychological sickness,
but you cannot take
the strength from her star, not the creativity that lulls
then sparks on her breath. You cannot take her rhythm,
her house where love and God come first,
where there is no deception,
no blood on the sleeves. You cannot take her beauty,
not her vow to stay open
to future blessings. You cannot take
the way she is committed to make good with her grief,
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