Beards

by Christos Polydorou

You could not break me even if you tried. What is
in us that speaks with such bravado? Ah!

Another person could break you, if not
immediately, then eventually.  All they’d

have to do was try, and if they were
beautiful, succeed, that is, if beauty

is your sort of thing. They could bat
their eyelids at you and the world could

stop.
This

is the sound of the world stopping,
this

is the sound of the world stopping,
this

is the sound of the world stopping, oh so
momentarily,

because
you have

batted your
eyelids

at me. I am
engulfed, I am

consumed, I am
enamored,

I am
drawn, I am

moreish, I am
ravenous,

and proceeding without
caution.  You could so

seduce me now with sweet nothings, boxes of
chocolates, and descriptions of your house

in the country, you could list types of trees,
species of flowers,

and the names of birds
that swoop down

and eat
what they can find

and I would fall in your arms
so easily

as though
I were fainting.

Resistance is futile,
I know. I cannot know

all the sides to this. I cannot
know if you will tear my heart out. I cannot

know if you even like beards.
I can only believe

what you tell me.

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