this entails no loveliness. If I loved you less, I would be aggressively lovely

We like loss to be quiet. 

Outside, flowers with lemon-stained throats 

smack noiselessly at the breeze though their mouths 

don't close, no they cower 

to closing. 

 

When I speak, my voice speaks 

over me, its light notes 

ligatures to make you 

calm again. To relieve 

each sound of its wail 

you knock, I exhale— 

we like loss to be quiet. 

This entails no loveliness. If I loved you less, 

I would be aggressively lovely. 

 

Outside, each flower makes a face. 

My face makes faces but each 

looks, you say, the same. 

What stupor kissed me, 

revoked me, left me bent? 

Is there assent in me? 

We like loss to be quiet. 

 

[Mary Szybist {1970- } 'Crylight', from Granted]