So what’s the point?
she wants to know –
always some no-nonsense
middle-aged lady with no time
for waste, for self-aggrandizement
with no other price tag.
All those words
nobody will read – she can see
not only does the emperor
have no clothes but the tailors
honestly believe they are sewing something.
Maybe you pile up those words
for your protection,
like a levee you crouch
against, flood waters
lapping and spitting
over the top, spraying us all.
Maybe you will be the one to say it:
slot the necessary words in the order
that springs the lock, releasing us
from our own stupidity, from an existence
empty and hungry as a mouth
gaping and bleeding like a wound.
Maybe you try to say it
so the stupid doesn’t chain you
so you can go on believing
that at least you somehow
remain unchanged.
