He Refuses, On First Acquaintance, To Hear Her Self-Disclosure At The Restaurant Poem by Tom Goff

I’m not your lover. Don’t make me your priest
when qualified confessors can be had.
You broke your own hive, left bees unreleased.

Indifferent to the need that makes you nest
with knaves or wrestle nightmare knives of dread,
I’m not your lover, don’t make me your priest.

Not that your swarming or keening wrecks the feast.
The meat the table moans under is dead.
You broke your own hive, let these bees release

their stings. Quivering at the paternal beast
who took your innocence won’t heal your head
(I’m not your lover, don’t make me your priest)

─ nor can you chant whole indices of deceased
or unfit loves. I’m used to being bled.
You broke your own hive, let each bee release

its venom defending a honey-dripping piece
of busted comb. But go elsewhere, get fed.
I’m not your lover, don’t make me your priest.
Hive, you have broken. Bees, you are now released.