Let no lover follow you on that night you bury your heart
in the garden.
Carry it trembling like a wet fever in a sack.
Go like a shadow, daughter of midnight.
Don't weep, tears always obscure vision.
Don't moan, moaning is a sign of regret
and might arouse the dead.
Use your hands to unknot the soil, uproot
the poppies if you have to, they can always
Avoid the slippery gaze of the moon.
Soon not one will not know your heart from the flowers.
Originally published in Stellar Showcase Journal, Spring 2007
Copyright © Lisa Zaran