Grim sonnets fraught with fraud and trauma stuff
her notebooks—steamy, bitter memories
of finished romance, rarely with enough
sweet lip syrup—ripe with frivolities,
important drama, broad license.  She needs
an audience like green things need daylight.
I’m the sun to her bright lily.  She reads
with fierce emotion—I squeeze my arms tight
around me, choke a chuckle—she pretends
I’m just amused at her soul-piercing style.
So much to ask, this ritual she tends
like a garden?  I feign attention while

she rails at love and fate, lips pursed or drawn—
sarcastic, crushed, dismayed her youth is gone.