How do you blush and say you were not moved,
with blood that courses through your veins like Spring
or stars that burst through twilight’s half-light shyness?
The grappling hooks that draw you back are words;
each one is marked by time that has its place,
a when-to-be and just how long to rage
against the justice and the pleas for space
that beg you bleed just so you’ll know you live.
Hide your cheek and drift away from warmth.
Refuse transfusions that could save your life.
There is no scent as sweet to death as flesh
that feeds upon its own unhappiness.
I’ll slap your face to justify the red,
pretending that I never saw your tears.
© 2017 Lisa Mulrooney