Let the force of this imagined form
make real the hollow where your love should be;
press your lips to its mouth; call down the storm
that lurks behind all calls for compromise. The tree
of which you thought you were a leaf is dead;
the soil parched. Its thirst, now yours, breathes—
the metaphor by which you were misled,
the question your own conscience now unsheathes.
Prepare for what comes next. Be on your guard.
Allow yourself to mourn what you have marred.