Susan Daniels is a poetic treasure – her work will tickle you, thrill you, awe you, and – oh – just read her blog and decide for yourself.
It is dangerous to love a poet
who blows emotion into rainbow animals;
orange giraffes, pink dogs, purple monkeys–
her balloon bestiary handed off to anyone
who stops to admire her skill and their lightness.
That some are shaped to your likeness is completely accidental,
she says, bouncing your persona palm to palm until it pops.
It is troubling to love a poet
who paints seduction in shadows
on metaphorical flesh, concentric patterns
traced on paper when the lines you want her to read out loud
are written by vessels under your skin, shivered
and goosebumped for lips busy kissing or cursing a muse.
You will always be the interloper in that marriage.
It is lonely to love a poet
who stays up until dawn, choosing the right shade of red
to spraypaint your name on the moon, her graffiti
bold enough to read from any bedroom window–
no solace when her…
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