King Mithridates VI took small doses of poison,
with a pinch of salt, to temper his fear
of death. But it is the devouring appetite
of days that I fear: I would never admit
it whole, only in doses small enough
to stomach. Life is easier to swallow
when broken into smaller betrayals.
I steep joy long enough to diffuse its glare,
let sorrow sit in drawers with moth-eaten shawls.
Like a clockmaker’s prodigal son,
I keep time as memory—petals pressed
between the pages of a book.
I can’t let myself fall in love
with life, only to find myself immune to it,
and like the defeated King Mithridates
turn to what still can wound.