Two

Lesbian couples are terrible,
and their breakups even worse.
It's bad enough to have one woman.
But two?
There is twice as much blood, silent crying,
poetry writing, weight gaining.
There are twice as many speeches to rising moons,
bitten fingernails, forgotten pots of tea.
There are still chores to be done;
the world doesn't explode,
no matter how much they want it to.
Twice as many people neglect the laundry.
Two sets of sheets come away wine-blotched.
Two photo albums burn,
minus five or six special snapshots:
sweat on her mouth, holding flowers, giving birth.
The sunrise momentarily loses four appreciative eyes,
replaced by the allergic orbs of the lonely, still awake.
Love is never so destructive
as when shared between women,
and yet, in poetry and teacup inscriptions,
hospitals and gardens and bedrooms,
never so beautiful.