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Poetry: Politics

 

 

When love comes late,
you're not prepared:  your hair
is unwashed, the dishes
are still piled in the sink.

You have no training in manners.

You were never taught
the postures of poetry, or
the address of emotions.

When love comes late,
you have no defence:  mornings
bruise your belly, nights alone
abrade your dreams.

You have no lore to placate them.

You were never taught
the intricacies of candlelight, or
the language of eyelashes in sleep.

When love comes late,
you have no protection:  your dance
is discerned, the masks
heaped like spoils before the tyrant.

You are not prepared for attention.

There is no recourse,
no shield or appeal, against love,
when love comes late.
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