I Took a Poem as a Lover

I took a poem as a lover,
but I had to give it up.
Poor form
to claim what’s yours
as mine. In truth, we each have
a fair shot. In truth,
the poem belongs to all
the ladies, stout or tall,
dyed hair or false nails: it cannot
be monogamous. The poem
nests, rests, in every
furred nook it finds, nuzzles
right up close
until you forget what you smell
like. The poem
traffics in desire, wears
lipstick on its collar like a medal, faint
scar of love. I want the poem
to be my own, but you need
a visitation too, you need
to believe the poem is
just for you.