I would barricade
myself inside a poem.
Becoming increasingly critical,
I would see my own image everywhere
and hide my enemies
on that side of the mirror.
I would fall in love twice a year,
buy 1000 roses. With no gift of abundance
inside me, I would worship
the penuries of sobriety,
allow them to catch up
to my sorrows. I would wake
his stony heart and give him one of flesh.