Sonnets for Dancer XXXII
Daring to speak, wanting to sneak
in two words, yet without relief
they come like fire into the night:
not Fat. Not going. No, not right
to say such a simple thing
when the lines are curved and the poisson ringed,
the nets cast and the curtains stringed,
the “fat” so named is a relative shame.
You’d ask me only for the truth I cry,
the man so singled to deck a lie,
the past that’s written to be written again,
there’s nothing there but advantage gained.
For that moment, the fuel of rage
lies your seed, its life uncaged.