A Belated Note to George Gordon, Lord Byron

I keep a volume
Of your beautiful
Love poems

On the nightstand
Beside my

Bed.

They calmed
Me

Provided a
Keyhole
By which

I might view
With prurient

Interest

Your involvement
With all manner

Of females.

I say “females”
Rather than

“Women”

Because at least
One

Was twelve years
Young.

Twelve.

Your apologists remind us
It was a different
Time.

But twelve years young
Mr. Byron
Is always

Twelve years young.

Twelve.

Four thousand
Three hundred
and eighty

Days old.

Might I quote thee
Mr. Byron?
By day or night, in weal or woe
That heart, no longer free,
Must bear the love it cannot show,
And silent ache for thee.


Tis no wonder
Lord Byron
Thou must not show
Your truly

Silent ache!

She was
Twelve years
Young
Mr. Byron.

No longer
The masterful work
I once enjoyed
Your volume of

Lust poems

Now make a wonderful

Coaster.