ill, fated, maiden
Water is a mirror and visions
become reflective. I hesitate
on the edge while you sing.
My blanched knuckles clutch
the flanks of the canoe. When you
give the signal, I enter the round.
Row, row, row your boat
Gently down the stream
(Row, row, row your boat)
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily
Rounds are not harmonious;
one person sings while the other
trails forever two lines behind.
I vomit twenty years of sour notes
into the water. Going 'round
and 'round on rounds, not the sea,
has made me ill; my purge
is an inkblot of the Titanic.
The White Star Line maiden did not
succumb to an iceberg; she rested
when her buoyant musicians,
knowing fate had doomed the tune,
found the courage to cease playing.
Left-Side Deaf
Born left-side deaf
births an odd kind of voodoo;
"Answer people when they speak," mother told her.
But if she does, wouldn't that just encourage
further conversation?
Dead nerve endings
sustain their own allure for sure;
an advantageous kind of affliction.
The binary ability to switch from on to off
with one simple twist of the neck.
Split personality disorder
aside, she's grateful for a side to hide in
when her sense of social duty
contrasts wildly with her stunning
lack of interest in direct human contact.
She's left-side deaf
and if they come along too strong,
rambling rhetoric she'd rather not hear,
she could slit their throats, but chooses
just to wring her own neck instead.
