Sonnet 46

Posted in quatorzain by maggie on 2008/03/22
Sonnet 46

Intending to create such love as this,
To Nancy's bleeding bedside I went sent
To catch her final word.  It's yours I miss.
Her practice and her voice to reinvent,

My own skin hung itself up on the cross
That purified her heart.  It's yours I want.
All that is was born of such a loss,
Its howling emptiness come back to haunt

Her ancient dream's new life.  It's yours I call.
Like specimens of her perverse device,
What we'd become was sketched in blood through all
Her poetry.  It's yours I sacrifice.

It's yours I have, for whom she had her own
to speak the name.  It's yours by which I'm known.

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