(In memory of Edna St. Vincent Millay)
That your heart gave way in the end, my dear,
is no surprise. You were not wearied suddenly,
rather four seasons brought their storms to bear
and left you out to weather, or nearly.
That your soul was satisfied with Beauty’s
harvest, we do not know, but saw you’d leave
Love’s feast for a steady draft of the Muse’s
cup. You knew what you and she would weave.
And is this a contradiction?
A work of fiction? Would anyone regret
proving the power of Love’s addiction?
A good quick end, stubbed out like a cigarette,
the still-warm ash of life’s affairs
flicked down a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
(First published in Mezzo Cammin, Volume 11, Issue 1, June 2016.)