Rock art by Tim Christensen
Anti-Love Poem
Sometimes the romance in my head is like black bumblebees sucking
juice out of hotlips sage, lumps of deep coal crows plunging
then away as if a crime has been committed, shoals heard at night
from a cabin, an old boyfriend coming by to get rid
of a new one, as asked. Hummingbird red, liposuction-
hushed roses, watercolor-streaked
tiger lilies with their rifle-ripe green, threat
of yellow bleeding. Real romance is nothing,
lasted weeks or was it a year, expectations of a swollen
conversation. Date for planting, date of fruition,
notes jotted each year to track growth—these are not applicable
to bumblebees, to crows' illegal activities, not useful
when I need unruly fall days full of static electricity,
the way leaves haven't yet ground down, dictated by a rake.
