In the bizarre ritual
of dividing self
between reality
and gingerbread expectations
of love, I walk the island
of my watch trusting
a vase of ecstasies
filled with lilacs and peonies
(symbols and such)
will woo romance
to my door before time
robs them of their blush.
With all the romanticizing of romantic
there must be a tall, handsome (malleable)
male roaming his soul to find words
to proclaim (feebly) of his heart’s loyalty
to all things me.
Surely the astigmatism of a besotted eye
would find me so irresistible my kitchen
of herbs and bones would not offend.
There are islands of letters I’ve collected
from the fallible inklings of masculine absurd
who think their bodies are Eve’s wonderland,
a place where submission would be my blessing.
Of course, no man is an island.
He prefers a skulk where he can
thump and bluster he has the
prowess to own any vixen he desires.
Oh, who would believe I’m a fainting goat
lying prone in dreams of Prince Charming.
Springes line my sidewalk to trap egos
silly enough to think a wink and muscle flex
are enough to reduce me to shivers of surrender.
I am a black widow of various talents who knows
how to protect her web from the dissection
of her spirit to accept less to parade a perception of more.
©Susie Clevenger 2022
