You thought I was that type:
That you could forget me,
And that I'd plead and weep
And throw myself under the hooves of a bay mare,
Or that I'd ask the sorcerers
For some magic potion made from roots and send you a terrible gift:
My precious perfumed handkerchief.
Damn you! I will not grant your cursed soul
Vicarious tears or a single glance.
And I swear to you by the garden of the angels,
I swear by the miracle-working icon,
And by the fire and smoke of our nights:
I will never come back to you.
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Comments1Really felt this one. Especially this part "Damn you! I will not grant your cursed soul Vicarious tears or a single glance." It reminded me of the time I first read it when I was much youngers. Poems like this one really pack a punch. It's like she throws the heart out and slams the door behind. Ouch.