It is strange to wait,
wishing for a death—not,
indeed, the death of an enemy—
no, the death of the man
who is to be my
most intimate friend.

But I have grown accustomed to it.

I haven't much to do and
I plan his death
in my head. I
picture it over and again.
He is a good man; he is
patient and humble.
He is all that I am
not. Sometimes I try to imagine
him corrupt and deserving
to console my conscience;
still, I know Coincidence would
never take such a man.  He must
be good; it must be tragic. I can't
picture a peaceful death either:
no, his end must be brutal and it
must be extravagant.
Crowds will stare (and
how could they not?) as
his body is broken and
his limbs twist and tangle and
his flesh is wrested from his bones and
his blood flows and collects in pools and stains the asphalt.
Silently shall he fall
into the earth
and die.

And yet it will be
resurrected
from the tomb of his ribs,
for it will—it must!—it
shall be intact. It
will live again
in me. It,
and it
alone.

It must be so—I must reap—
the harvest must come—it is not rape;
he receives the promised fruit.
But—I receive only sucralose. How I
envy him, for
I—I fear to be tread upon
the threshing floor with
the unquenchable fire
enveloping.

But I see no other way.
It seems I have chosen
that, after killing him,
I will cross my saviour with
the betrayal of mediocrity.

Sonnet—To Coffee

O Coffee! Thou art the most beautiful
Young maiden that hast ever trod the land,
If one should judge by my most dutiful
Adherence to thine every vain command.
Thy charm condemns a Christian man to lust:
Thou'd make him think that, where thy feet had stepped,
Dead earth should sprout anew; forthwith he must
Be fain to wish in thine embrace to've slept.
But, off'ring love anon to any man,
thou brewest hatred hotly in its stead.
Fie, fie, thou art but calloused courtesan,
O Coffee; quickly is thy love proved dead.
How hate I thee for nights thou keep'st me 'wake,
But, still, my heart sans thee each day should break.


[now, the romanticized version]

A Reconquista

Fair Moor! This charm a Christian man condemns
To lust: from couchant eyes glance vital leapt,
And sands of soul sprout green; in chamber dim
Who can but wish in thine embrace to've slept?
Why veil'st thyself in such dark secrecies?
I would a kiss might silent lips unseal,
Unbind thy heart, loose chains of int'macies.
Command; obey I will, though 'gainst my weal,
And, loving, fight for hate. But love betrays
My cause; my sword assails my heart: I see
defeat and victory in but one day.
Forsaken, crushed, transfixed my heart shall be
Now, crossed by love! To've loved one's enemy—
Strange how 'tis as, and not, my Lord decreed.