I have fixed my make-up in a broken mirror.
I have done my nails a deep tar black.
When you speak my name,
I blush red like the steps to a Gypsy wagon--
A little higher each time,
And closer to my bed.
Because of you,
I would have to be handcuffed and buried at a crossroads beneath ten feet of rocks,
Excommunicated and set on fire,
Before I would stop writing these poems.
I turn my tongue to honey and wrap it around your name.
I wear a silver new moon against my heart;
When it goes full,
You will know by sense of touch, that it is yours.