Love is giving something you do not have to someone who does not want it.
          —Lacan¹

                    i.

Because the damage is different
god, signifier of lack
cracked cinnabar hack
crumbles to gold

                    ii.

salts art that fails
without permission
asks what terrifies you more
possession or obsession

                    iii.

being desired beyond your offer
or power to control being overcome
what if nature’s just performing an opera
and we don’t realize we’re auditioning for parts

                    iv.

playing at loss
getting over an overture
deepening a depleted reservoir
sun-scarlet shards of mined hearts

                    v.

pitted parts to devour
feed the holy our beauty
appeal to the devil for justice in unjust situations
tribal dialogues void on the radio

                    vi.

fragile cherries pressing their frost against breath of glass
crack flesh until smile splatters across
estranged reflection
in re-enactment fractal as oil was crude when first spilled

                    vii.

the will is guarded by that which created it
as a hero is judged by the size of his foe
the terror of a demon by the weakness of its host
harsh glamour of false grammar

                    viii.

blood and milk of suffering and nurturing
both burning hurting to its curse’s core
both burden stars
lightning duelling with stars

                    ix.

harm with healing
all seeking wisdom
my fear carries the same weapon
Sword of Damocles falling upon me

                    x.

without apology
my body made of sacred geometry
blades hanging like rusting fruit from the rafters
of the mouth under whose roof

                    xi.

my prayer swells anticipating tell
come dressed for dancing
expecting rapture
I’m not going to miss you

                    xii.

or misuse this power over those who confused
my presence for a complement to their impending absence
sorrow of separation weeps into thrill of exile
any ending’s reason

                    xiii.

love is living a season with no logic but its own
to lead us on
falling like a thunderbolt
on the first thing with a pulse.

__________
¹Jacques Lacan, “[Chapter] V. Medical Harmony: Eryximachus” in “The Mainspring of Love: A Commentary on Plato’s Symposium” of Transference: The Seminar of Jacques Lacan: Book VIII: Edited by Jacques-Alain Miller: Translated by Bruce Fink, published at Cambridge by Polity Press in 2015; page 71.