Image: Lise Winne’s “Fools, Jester”
To Profess Her a Fool
It makes sense that she should tremble
When she sees his face,
Hears his voice—
She must wonder
What her body will become
If she never kisses him with a passionate mouth
If she never feels his arms pull her to his heart.
How will her bones bear
The yearning as they grow brittle?
How will her heart beat
The fire that leaps at the thought of his touch?
How will her blood keep
The liquid love that spills passion
Upon a page to profess her a fool?
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