In This Cul-de-Sac

To make sure You have not said: "I love you," They smell your breath. They even smell your heart Trying times are these, my darling. They flog love Tied to the post of the cul-de-sac We must hide love in the closet. In this serpentine maze This crooked cold corner They feed the fire With poems and songs Thinking, too, is risky. Those who, late at night, knock on the door, Are there to kill the lamp. We must hide the light in the closet. Then there are the butchers Stationed at all cross-roads, Armed with a block and a bloody cleaver. Trying times these are, my darling. Surgically, They plant smiles on lips, And songs in the mouths. We must hide joy in the closet. On lilies and lilacs, They roast the canaries. Trying times these are, my darling. Drunk with victory, the Devil, Celebrates our wake. We must hide God in the closet.