Critic

It stands over her watching

It spends a lot of time looking over her shoulder

It is no more than a shade

It has been here a long time

It’s got the edge on her

It feeds her scraps

It gives her the creeps

It mouths the words mouthing them, phraseology

She tells it to go away

It breathes down her neck, palming its clammy skin

on her bare arms

She sweeps it up and throws it away but it keeps on

coming like dust

It breathes on her neck, a fierce wind

It lives in caves

It lives in sleep and dreams

It is dreaming her, creatology

It says she’s too passive

It says she needs to act

It wants to coexist

She says it’s too coexisting

She says she doesn’t need any help

She says it knows everything, doesn’t it

It stands sunlight-like

It stands spot/light stage

It wears no shades

It is alone

It stands 3’ away. & tall

It is dressed in a dark gray suit, with pinstripes

It wears wingtips

dark gray, new

It is full of night, too full

full of mirrors & stars

She wanders—awe returns

It becomes a dream, a lover

becomes breath on skin, arm of touch

to endure the act, go down

to crystal, iron to linger

figure it out, even to guess

clarity. A new language, syntactology

It has gotten carried away

She has carried it away

She has flown away with it

Her muse

She is breathing down its neck

Her hands are all over it, warm

She is riding it now

Bless her spirit

Now then

She roars across the globe

She is standing guard, watching it

All night. Full. Fuller

breathing down its neck

She knows what it’s going through

Gnoseology

How true

She tries to avoid it

with feeling

She makes it disappear

She holds up the sky along the way

She keeps it to herself, secretology

Originally published in Guillinna on Four Wheels by Sandra Squire Fluck. Available on Apple Books and Amazon Kindle.


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