literature

Love poem to my plague doctor

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Published: Apr 23, 2011

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Literature Text

This morning you, my true love
tapped a heartbeat into my door
with an oak cane.
I didn't answer.

I wasn't afraid of you, I promise.
In fact shaking swept over me
a feverish need to pull you in
rising from my chest to my throat.
When you left I coughed it out.
It lay there on my floor
thick and red, but not so much my blood
as my offering
my chance.

It is noon.
My neck stings and pulses
for you to kiss it.
But of course you won't.

Perhaps this attraction
the beauty I see in the way you're covered by a beast
is the same that creates
werewolves, minotaurs, and politicians.
I wouldn't want a man
so please, don't take your mask off.
Don't look at me without the glass over your eyes.
You live if they can't see you, true love of mine
and I want us to live.

I think you flew away
this morning, black cloak catching the filthy air
and roosted on top of the headstone they are building me.
I would rather succumb
than think you might be at another house
with a new girl you cannot touch.

I will call you back
and your leather gloves will be the roughest heaven
peeling this sickness from my skin
as if it's only paper.
You will trail your beak along my collarbone
scraping to leave red gashes that smell
of dead roses and bark and self-delusion.

If you arrive too late someone will have gnawed
boils into my skin and spit it back out.
You will only be able to return to your roots
and feed on me, you white-faced crow.
I won't feel you push that cane into my stomach
dissect the parts you could not save
raise each separate failed organ to your lips
to taste only your own perfume
stuffed inside your body.
You will never know me.

I understand that you are a rare creature indeed.
I understand all we won't have
but my true love, I'm ready to let you in.

You have to come back.
I am sick with longing.

You know the image, but not the function. This is a plague doctor: [link]

They took care of those dying from the bubonic plague in the Middle Ages. Plague doctors stuffed spices and flowers up the beaks to combat the "evil" air. And they poked people with canes to keep from touching them.

I write the weirdest love poems. That probably means I need more of a love life.

Critique request ([link] for

)

This came out in a rush, and I haven't truly edited it like crazy, so critique would be smashing. I tend to either really hate my poetry or really like it, and I'm pleased enough with this one, but I know it can definitely be improved.

Most of my own problems with it deal with the reveal of the sickness. Love poetry is generally not strewn with descriptions of bubonic plague, and I tried to avoid the more disgusting parts of having your flesh rotting, but I need to know how it strikes the reader. Is it so gross it becomes distracting? Not vivid enough? At one point can you tell the narrator's sickness is serious? That she's dying?

Similarly the image of a plague doctor is well-known, but not the function. I've found no amount of description can create what a simple image does, but the black robes and white crow mask are important. Is the description of them powerful enough that you can see the plague doctor? At the end of the poem can you understand both why the narrator has fallen in love with him and why it could be considered wrong?

There are a few images in there that I'm less than impressed with. In particular, the "and politicians" line always gets a laugh, but I'm not sure that was what I was searching for. "I won't feel you push that cane into my stomach" isn't visceral enough for me. Your own opinions on them would be greatly appreciated.

I'm really curious to hear what you felt the overall message of the poem was, and your opinion of the two characters.

In addition, any thoughts on the rhythm, word choice, and flow are stupendous. And honestly, just as helpful as all I've outlined here, although I can't verbalize it as well.

Thank you.

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