There’s No Cure for a Broken Heart
Not even that tattoo:
crushed needles,
colored ink—
an empty bottle of wine
jagged edges stained red.
The honey bee
knows which flowers
are heavy with sweetness,
which ones carry poison.
The cartographer steals
the last map he ever made.
Too many holes
in the earth, he said,
and no way back.
Cool sheets,
hot tattoos,
the road leading
away from love,
the sting of being alone.
*
Michael Minassian is a Contributing Editor for Verse-Virtual, an online poetry journal. His poetry collections Time is Not a River, Morning Calm, and A Matter of Timing as well as a new chapbook, Jack Pays a Visit, are all available on Amazon. For more information:
https://michaelminassian.com
