Palmistry

To the man
who tore his lovers’
favourite flowers
from their stems;
equated their beauty
to hers in song,
swore fealty to her
upon one knee;

to the man who
beckoned a hummingbird,
‘fore crushing it limp
in his fist

(how closed curtains
can choke the holiest
light, akin, these palms
that tar the skin purple
upon prickled white);

to the man whose
pen etches his love,
so vividly depicting the
ebb of her hair, the
lagoons of colour that
swim in her eyes,

once tore the paper
that dared slice through
his fingertips; the blood
dripping, dripping
upon the tiles.

To, man.