Give Me Love, I’ll Love Him

Much sickness in much drink.

I choose it.

Pretty poison. Looking at you,

who’ll offer my last glory?

Some insist on making

libations everywhere.

Some just taste the mouthfuls

sliding down—relaxed, happy.

Pretty poison means the place

drink can’t take you.

No matter how you hope,

you still need others.

Even if you try to heal yourself

you hurt.

That’s the danger walking backward step by step,

excruciation haunting your soul.

That’s honey we fry in joy,

slathering our lips,

last taste of lost dessert.

Give me love, I’ll love him.

Give me flowers, I’ll smell sweet.

Give me summer, I’ll shine.

Go charmingly, go mad.

Go irrigate, go die.

Stare at the sky for a harvest.