My dear beloved, if you prefer today
to go with your father to the backyard
to cut the throat of a sheep than to be
my lover, then you are not much of a
lover to have. Leastwise, you’ll never
more carry out a thoughtless slaughter
in indifference, but you’ll remember me
as the red life drains out of the animal
and its gaze fades under your hands.
But left in despair I wonder:
why are knife blades so cold
and why are kisses so warm,
why was I trapped by an unicorn
and why is the love so hard to hold?