Cover your ears, now,
and close your eyes.
Just do me a favor and turn away.
I have to tell you this:
You can’t trust the poet.

Oh, she has the best intentions,
but is easily distracted
by a clever arrangement
or a phrase smartly turned.
The poet is a liar.

And I promise,
I would never lie to you.
After all,
I choke on the simplest of words —
inaudible hellos.

But if you would have
the truth of me,
you have to ask.
And asking
is not our strength.

So much easier to hide
behind words that say nothing:
Here is another day,
another song,
another waxwing,
another path,
another moon,
another wind,
another night fallen.

And the poet
is all bravado,
masked in anonymity.
And if you still follow,
well then I admire your stamina.

Because surely
by now
you know
she has nothing true
to say.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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