I am more vinegar than honey,
more bitters than a cordial sweet.
If cloying be your style, mine
will trouble you; if woebegone
lament and threnodies accompany
your day, my suite of nocturnes,
seldom humble, will appall, or worse.
Between what you ignore and I
explore, lurk imps deploring vacuums,
primed to sketch in fine blue clefs
at crows’ feet and the disapproving
lip, tattoos of hexes that ensure
your paths and mine repel
and never cross again.
If, on the other hand, a vinaigrette
upon a bed of greens doth please
you, a vermouth of high degree
to your dry gin should call to mind
a rendezvous, sublime is what
I can assure, for God in His right
Heaven hath created me and you
in His uniting image, and there is
no procreating goes amiss, except
as those would limit: in the face
of them, my lips, moistened
and intent these many years
upon your kiss, would turn away.
© Elaine Stirling, 2013