Taken

Sept 9 2013

To take a lover.

It seems so simple

put this way;

as if reaching up

for succulent fruit

at the peak of ripeness.

Whole orchards

of unplucked trees

that await
your pleasure.

As if he will be consumed

utterly.

Your appetite, insatiable,

the fickle plaything

your jaded whimsy

desires.

I say he,

because men do not choose

as freely.

He must tend to his garden

attentively,

pursue his quarry

relentlessly,

with offerings

and flattery

and lavish gifts. 

And she will never truly be his;

taken, perhaps

but never fully given.

To take a lover

sounds insincere,

because we idealize romantic love

as virtuous

forever.

While the lover you lust

will be discarded

once you are done.

The inedible pit

unsentimentally tossed aside,

sweet fermented juice 

sucked dry.