Consequence Yet Hanging in the Stars

So what? Even if the whole thing's doomed,
what are your options? The other girls are crows,
she's a dove. As for your premonition:
even if chasing her meant that tomorrow
(except for a few bones in the family tomb)
all the atoms that were Juliet
would start unravelling and moving on—
you think you'd just go home now and forget her?

Here's the garden wall. Listen, Verona's
small and dead. You say they'll kill you. So?
Your body's quick electrons leap their shells,
leave town—as dandruff on some scapular—
travel the world as rain, rose, herpes cell;
and she'll be rhubarb, musket, macadam, nylon;
exotic, both of you—krill, cam shaft, or star
hanging on the night skin of the sky.

Copyright © 2009 Deborah Warren All rights reserved
from Dogwood
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission