If I placed within your palm the center of my heart
Would you set it on a wooden pyre
Wrapped in silk and laced with fire
Soot and ashes for your quill of black art?
Would you rather have a table
Burning candles like starlight
Where you’d hold me like I’m life
Would my love you’d gently cradle?
In the parlance of our language
Like lovers at defeat
When I’m begging at your feet
Are these poems here to anguish?
In your heart do I expand
Like galaxies slowly forming
Or am I just another warning
Like the dead who died because they’re damned?
© Delia Ross. 2020
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