punic wars of the heart

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?