Your love is a scorched earth policy.
Moved, you did, through my fields of hope, sowing salt into the ground I tilled all summer. On deep, moonless nights you slouched toward my hearth, to steal the smallest glint of flame from the blooming coals. With the fire I thought you’d kindled for warmth, you burned. You burned my crops, with our fire. Ash and cinder shivered in the air, like something magic. It came to rest, painlessly, on my face. You poured poison into my well; I knew you would. That water was deep and pure. And when locusts visited the grain house, I knew it was you who invited them.