I do not mean Yes when I say No

I do not want to be loved

If it means to be covered

In mosses and unsung reed pipes

In cracked moth eggs and swarming maggots

If it means that I cut off my head

And empty myself.

If it means that I butcher my legs

And plant my feet

Surgeon it with roots and hapless poems—

That, when a woodcutter bath me in my blood

The world would clap and call it love

Just the right sort of thing.

And why on this bloody earth

Can u not love back ?

Why not be a little grateful

And thank the Lord

And the heavens above,

And the angels around

And the guardians below —

For this blessed life?

I might as well thank the devil-

For not lying to me.