you ask her to kill her poem
by extracting its "finest" lines
amputation of the soul
yet you do not call this murder
but scholarship instead
ever the refuge of the amputee
if you talk about these things too much
the magic loses itself
and talk is all there is
fact becomes fact with repetition
the encrustations of precedent
repeating the dusty verdicts of predecessors
No, she says
to write is to breathe, suffocating without
she will not make herself over
no personality du jour
unbidden, her words had unlocked the door
she had crossed over, and could not return
she would erase herself no more
no, she will pass instead
unmarked, unwept
always the water changes
but the river stands still
and they will stand, too
solemn soulless sentinels
mockingbirds singing over her grave