My heart is a knot
that you are tied up in—
orchid in an ice cube,
pierced butterfly wing.
For you I must be
what I am not:
a little lance holding
hair-trigger spring,
the thing that separates
rocket from bomb.
If I am oyster, you are pearl
If I am shell, you are mortar
Baby bird, cement shoes
I love you but I’m afraid to move.
Connecting loops
you say,
sliding imaginary ropes
around our two necks.
I dread anything
around the throat—
infinity symbol,
invisible yoke.
