after Rodin
You never loved me. If
it were really me whom
you adored, not just
the sound of your own
voice, you should have
been able to listen—
follow that one command
not to look back before
we were together again
in the light, lavender
tulips at our feet, open
as the cavern’s voracious
mouth. All the days you
sang to me with your deep
voice, were you singing
for yourself? Even when
you called after me, every
syllable of my Sapphic
name ringing in my ears,
you were a more skilled actor
than you believed, playing
the role of lover, pretending
that all you wanted was my
mouth on yours. Instead, you
sought fame—all nightingales
to imitate your song.