A sweet note
beats a slipknot.
This is not what you’d expect of lovers,
but everything you’d dread
when two poets lose their heads
and fumble for rope
to hitch up their hearts.
A slip of the tongue, let’s call it,
set the scrub fowl gouging
and your trust continues to cave.
I wrote you a ransom note. Or three.
I offered to remove your blindfold free-of-charge
but you like the dark.
Your notes are passionfruit –
tough skin, poor results from attempts
but when I finally cut you open,
harmonies spill onto my lips.
That’s not me slipping a knot
into your noose, lover –
I’m behind the guards, singing your innocence,
wanting you free.
I am beaten, you have slipped,
and as with every hangman’s noose,
it’s too tight to loosen.
But I’m on my way with a knife
and passionfruit on my tongue,
and this is everything you’d expect
of a poet
who is useless with rope
but expert at cable-tying
words around your heart.