Loving is being held at gunpoint
by a thief who demands a grand ransom
and giddily carving it out of your chest
with your own hands.
Bareboned, you unfurl your fingers,
the ransom’s ventricles speckless and spirited.
The other palm spread out, holding the dagger.
it is yours to pierce and discard, you say,
or to keep in your locket,
every filament kneeling, trusting the thief
will choose the latter.