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.