A sweet face, hard to describe

All my poetry is love poetry;
Even the dirty, bloody lines
Are written by a hand that's known tenderness;
And a living mind, still swimming
In the roseblood of its deepest wounds;

Love, the great wave, setting the body to die before desire,
Drowning fear like a screaming weakness;
Love, the lotus blade, sharpened on wit;
So clean, it cuts through disgrace;
Shearing the universe, befriending death;

And as it turned my world, love turned me to hers;
Words like "wife" and "mother" burning, like shrapnel, in my chest;
Too dangerous to look at; too beautiful to ignore;
Our bodies like stars, fully formed,
And immune to refusal;