The Trouble With Paradise

If I could close my heart as dutifully
as I open my legs to the disappointment,
what dark streets might my feet wander?
Would I finally inhabit the world
you, in all your naiveté couldn’t brace?

Instead of this caricature of heaven,
I’d dangle on the edge of a knife blade,
between breath and heartbeat, uncertain
of either following one after another,
more alive in that instant than in all the
soul-numbing decades combined.

I’m not your pet, your princess or priority,
nor am I your flower, your love,
or the answer to years of prayers.

The palest rose still bears thorns.
Yes, even on those delicate stems
pain is delivered by a prick.
And the trouble with paradise is--
someone else designed it.