Sonnet: This Blood

I’d say you didn’t find it as you, hoping,
flipped the pages of the Book of Women’s Curses
(while I hovered like those hospice nurses,
in a hush). I’d say you, fiercely hoping,
didn’t draw this blood when you’d concoct
the proofs that God is dark, that He coerces
tears. But now, I sense the brine my verses
seem; you hear the lines of man-talk.
Say yourself.  And are those fancy words?
You say yourself you see more, feel more, now.
So, please, don’t smooth your grimace like your skirt
as you present yourself — or try to firm
up tears with facile cheerfulness, somehow.
Just say yourself; does wisdom ever hurt?

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