When I stole a kiss from you
I must have stolen
your Sicily, your Corsica too —
Why else did you cascade
from the alps, wild-eyed,
and elephant-tall?
Why else did you campaign
sixteen long years in the boot
of my heart? You brute!
You animal! You Hannibal, you!
And now what am I to do?
It seems your own Numidians outflank you.
It seems your shores of Spain are lost.
It seems your Carthage lies in ruin.
But must I salt the fields of your memory?
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