THE MISTAKE

In the evening of a red summer

he said he was leaving

I dressed in spider webs

and poured honey on the sheets

from coast to coast

I called him by all his names

then wrestled Eros and tied

him to my pomegranate tree.

He hissed among the nettles

and wriggled like a snake.

You’re no good, I lisped,

he is still leaving. 

I am only a god

I give power to love—

how he uses it  

is his choice.

I untied the ropes then. 

It was no mistake to be alone,

to watch them leave—

man and god together.