Fugit Amor

After Rodin, "The Gates of Hell"

The lover's flight seems launched underwater-

she flutter kicks, glides out beneath

him. Where back-to-back they held together,

now, eyes closed, she holds her breath

and rides her elbows upwards even as he

tries to keep her there, fastening his left

hand to her right breast, stretching high

his right hand to collar her, to clutch

or pull her hair; but no bereft display

of pectorals, biceps pulls her home, his touch

the springboard she arcs from, toward air

where the O, Amor of his mouth can't reach.

Meanwhile certain thoughts, dreams, bore

through the top of her head, she needs both hands

to bury them, contain her mind before

this perversion explodes it. A critic finds

"this ill-mated pair represents

humanity without moral love," bound

forever to be disuniting, in bronze.

She's still lashed to and fleeing him at once.