When Juliet died, you could hear the sound of spring’s departure,
how the cherry wraps about a shawl, setting off after
the morning sun, Eros, and all the pretty young things who gander out
after love songs and sweet words.
Well, I’m here to tell you the sad truths of her story.
I met her struggling to breathe beneath the aspen trees.
The knife still stuck in the abdomen, blood drenching her petticoat as if
the thirteen-year-old girl just hit puberty. But it wasn’t menstrual.
It was suicide, plain and simple.
Nymphs will tell you the messiness of it all.
The weight of blood, not just on hands, but in the body too.
Protein, platelet, red and white blood cells,
afflicting the syrupy caverns with a channel of red.
They can’t feel the iron as hemoglobin particles
waft in and out of the wound.
Resin coagulates. Crystallizes
after millions of years of oxygen exposure.
What d’you suppose blood does? Turn into a ruby?
No. Love is not enough a cure
for the mortal folly of being young. Foolishness
is at peak toxicity in those with
strong bodies and stronger immune systems.
More common than a cold, such lovelorn fools are struck.
Disease and heartache go hand in hand, bearing
love, a weight: the malignant growth
at a perpetual state.
Spring said goodbye because she was tired of this shit.
She hauled ass out of Verona because the sun made her itch
and the immortal (believe me) would not live with skin cancer.
I’ll tell you now, I had no choice but to pull out the shaft.
The blade was still sick with intestinal fluids and you can’t even imagine
the stench, the smell.
Hell, if I were alive with a scar like this, I’d pack my bags and
haul ass too. Spring knew what she was doing (what she wanted)
Thirteen years is a short life. At least, it was when I was alive.
I don’t know about you, I said, but the brevity of sixty years
can’t compare to the thinness of a teen’s. I’ll tell you now, I’ll tell you now,
Juliet was in no shape to off herself like that.
I covered her body, I stained the wound in sap.
In a thousand years, she won’t be able to tell the difference.
Which says more about the dead and their memories
than the potency of hardened tree juice.
Memory is fickle, no less than Spring.
I brought her to her Romeo, I let her kiss his brow.
Heaven can be a sad place without love, but then again
so can Hell.