Unwilling

I like to imagine that you were unwilling,
but I know it's not true. My own history's killing
me. I dream that I'm riding a train, an unending
unfolding of wheat fields without. You're defending
yourself -- innocence is as easy as lying,
if you know how to lie. But you don't. All the dying
declarations of love, all the chivalrous yearning
cannot make me forget that my city is burning,
that you burned it. I've called off the fairytale wedding;
I will wear my white dress to a public beheading,
drown the scaffold in flowers. Do my customs of grieving
seem barbaric to you, my dear sir? I am leaving
this place, but I'm leaving it dancing and singing.
It is May. It is springtime. The birches are ringing
with the breeze and the birdsong. I'm already regretting
all this -- but you know I'm no good at forgetting.

❦