He said she said
there would be no more
words running loose
down paved streets. Potholes

in the sky
over Wisconsin wreck her
concentration as she flies
into the silence

of colors and shapes
ready to be made.
Let the cantillation begin.

Fatten Her Own Muse

Once was a smoker
who no more. Planes take off
over her head, so she won’t
sleep, so she’ll be repulsed
by the smell of her former
self seeping through the door
clearance. In the retelling,
this story grows wings, extra
limbs, Medusa locks (larger than
life only through a water
glass magnifier), drawn-out pauses
over the city map she secretly reads
in the palm of her left
hand. Second or third wife, some of us
lose track in the translation
that gets written down
by mistake. This is no Torah
rich in color and lineage.
That story is not hers.