Sonnet XXXVII

Black and purple like the water from ocean's bottom,
like the end of the evening,
like the daughter of coal-mine kings,
a heated blend of elusive, bitter flavors--

And the moon--
your skin--
it wavers with cold,
too pale,
but with the glow of life,
new-frozen,
soft like snow--

All your beauty,
as I reckon,
is in the contrasts.
I adore what injures you;
it gives you your form and shape.
Your traumas beckon me out to taste them,
to abuse,
to worship every cut and bruise.