She settled for a smug silence.
In the courtyard her lover skulked.
The deities grew treacherous.
What sort of penance is this,
she wondered. She had grown into
what she was.
God I can’t go back to where
I’d been. She sat there thinking
listening to pigeons.
Hello there, still sharpening your word skills? I guess if I’m a character I’d be falling into love with wordsmiths. With words we invent a world. With words we perform rites of ceremony, of magic, of declaration. With words we woo. With words we regularize what is at hand. “Trump’s America”! That’s at hand. Anyway you go make up a world with words in a poem. That’s what you do right? Do it right.