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| Oriental Turtle Dove (Streptopelia orientalis) by Nikhil Source |
by Nordette N. Adams
I have been told,
"Do not post poems on the Internet!"
See, the serious poet
embeds her words
only at the base of ivory
towers where an usher pushes
a diamond-crusted elevator button,
calling offerings to the spire
of the poet gods.
"A poem is a sacrifice,"
I have been told, and
"Love poems are the worst things in the world to share,
ruining reputations."
I see
you too,
poet,
have been told
how to withhold romance
from mortals. Yet
our love poems crust with dust in digital drawers for
googling imaginations.
We are a sad pair,
me saving feathers
on a green cliff,
you moulting,
solitary,
midair.
So, ignore these words,
not
a poem,
just
my working-through-
losing-you drafts,
you man with feathers
who for me was what
Dickinson heard
singing.
© 2013 Nordette N. Adams
*Title taken from the last line of Shakespeare's "The Phoenix and the Turtle Dove."
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