Self-Portrait as One-Woman Game of Telephone
I started a rumor in myself, a l’oeil de trompe,
a trickling of romp and rook, and it took.
And it took. High-tided and I’ll-not-tell; lie-lined,
frill-spiked, like a tulip you pay for with your life.
And it went sour. It went tower-felled, and cowered.
Ah, anchor-seed or weed. Indeed, I dialed again.
I started a rumor in myself, a too-tumor in myself,
a blur-spore, something to abhor and store like summer-jars
of strawberries suspended in their gel. And dropped:
a flotsam-rush of shards and pulp-red. Or instead, a drooped
fruit, an unreadable bulk embittered with its mold. Moreover,
something old, something unfresh: a mush text,
an unmouthed hex. The canard within is rivet-flexed,
with a downweight like lard. I lick it, canned and tart,
this tittle-tattle, this tender preserve. It has flavor in the root
and the receiver circulates, inspissates, wild with turns and scorn.
I couldn’t bear the death of its dice, its delicate flips, its flight.
Tootle-loo! This is too true; stay still while I untell you.