“Spell It for Me”
Spell it for me then, put it to the page;
Write it deftly in the margins if it satisfies,
Constricts, confines, and somehow justifies
The ciphers. Calligraphy implies a beauty caged,
A likeness petrified in seraphs, sighs beached in shadows, letters
Equal in significance to the words they form.
The lady doesn’t hesitate; both the single bee and all her swarm
Are natural metaphors in ancient scripts, instincts left unfettered
By the need to suppress or press a thought or bind
Its witnesses further than to cut a simple precedent,
The humble suggestion of a rhyme, a harbinger of content,
Coded, possibly imploded, sealed in what the mind defines
As patterned premises that merely tempt conclusions to evolve.
Haste? No time to waste before the riddle’s solved.
“Why write the book?” again she asks. Why resign or redesign
The box? Had she created how she spells
Herself, she might not raise the spectre of ephemera across the line
With all the others―no one here more the guest than she, herself―
Addressing: Who? or What? What for?
“Who was it did this thing?” she asks,
As Aristotle turns another page for her and knows―a turn
Of phrase, all fine philosophy aside―she’ll negotiate the door
That is not there or sit right where she is. She’ll read or write or worse,
She’ll believe and leave another Orpheus on the floor. She’ll break
Her water, claim it’s all so sudden, much too late
To ponder what it is she says within a second second verse,
“But, where’s the point of vanishing, and what the cue to reappear?”
She’s here, if nothing else with nothing less and nothing more to fear.