Sonnet for Monique
Hear what a fool you’ve made of me: impelled,
I tune this corny sonnet to the chord
your silver bracelets tingled when you held
me in your arms. Encircled ears implored
for any help, for words to weave that net
you wove of every nerve. My strings you fret.
You tuning fork! You strike me up and shake
me down. You witching wand, my mouth’s a lake.
You put the water there. You’d like to wade
and not get wet. I drink, I swim. What played
iambic rhythms in your breast and in
my ringing ear that floated on your skin?
You say you have no heart to give me, yet
you gave me mine, and have it now. We met.