He Refuses, on First Acquaintance, to Hear Her Self-Disclosure at the Restaurant

He Refuses, on First Acquaintance, to Hear
Her Self-Disclosure at the Restaurant                                                     Tom Goff

I’m not your lover. Don’t make me your priest,
when qualified confessors can be had.
Cry sorrow to the man who listens least,

indifferent to the need by which you nest
with knaves, or wrestle nightmare knives of dread.
I’m not your lover. Don’t make me your priest.

Not that your keening might upset our feast.
The meat that bends the table is all dead.
(Cry sorrow to the man who listens least.)

Nor that you chant whole indices of deceased
or unfit loves. I’m used to being bled.
(I’m not your lover. Don’t make me your priest.)

You fear and relish, both, the preschool beast
you quiver over. I cannot heal your head.
Cry sorrow to the man who listens least.

The suave, the solemn father self-policed
and cool may find you, innocent, unclad.
I’m not your lover. Don’t make me your priest.
Cry sorrow to the man who listens least.

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