But enough about poetry.
I’d rather read the letter
sufficiently enticing
to elicit the invitation
to Italy.
Perhaps you enclosed a recent photo.
Your literary skills – or so the story goes –
inspired a true proposal
of holy matrimony
until the already-wife sent you packing.
This could have been literal.
“Please pack your punctuation,”
them being the literary set.
But I’d prefer drama,
A confrontation of recriminations.
Well-worded threats.
A year before, my boyfriend’s mom escorted me out
via sharpened scissors.
How infinitely more romantic
if the poet’s spouse
swung the shears.
Did you love him for his mind?
Did he fuck you for your body?
But, hell, you ended up with a book
and a reputation.
But enough about poetry.
With Resistance 