I do not want to marry a poet
I do not want sonnets written about the way
I take my hair down-
I do not want endless verses about depths within my eyes
I do not want descriptions of my lips
and metaphors about my pulse
for one who is too focused on the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss me
and no woman worth my life would ever
spend time alone, writing about me
rather than spend time with me,
making rhymes with our lips and
meter with our feet as we dance together,
alliteration in the way our hands entwine
and assonance in our limbs colliding-
letting our soft animal bodies love what they love,
because the only metaphor I will ever need is not a metaphor:
you are really here, we are really alive
and all before you has been a dream.