I’m tracing the pressed flower on the page,
dipping fragile sunrise, the place
where we could be two angels.
See, we wanted that paradise:
two girls lying in the woods,
safe in the cocoon of friendship,
like they’re both fated for
each other, not
pursued, not men pushing out the lines,
just Hermia and Helena.
We could feign it like the May field whispered,
mixing colors, hands, moons.
What I would give to be fair for you:
dark hair and angles, fierce and sacred,
eyes like lodestars shining. Translated.
Instead, we sit the silence, watch the play.
The grim suitors mock me,
copying out their tragic histories,
then, worse, they stay.
We aren’t chiasmus, weren’t cliché.
So quick, bright things fall to confusion, anyway.