I

I.

The poet discards her eloquence

The poet discards her eloquence. She does just that; she discards it. It's just that simple, to toss the wadded words into the wastepaper basket, pronouncing them sophomoric and purple. Never will she stoop to the level of beauty again. Never again will she make that mistake, now that she's a serious writer.

Goodbye to springtime and roses and all that is amorous. She packs them away like a grown-up child's playthings. Farewell to rhymes and reasons; you are wanted no longer, you imaginary friends of the immature writer. She spits shining similes like baby teeth and numbs her gums to the pain as the cryptic monosyllables grown in. Only the child is gregarious and honest in her effuse verbiage, strewn in the air like colorful marbles for anyone to pick up. The adult poet knows better than that. She will purse close lips and keep her words and shimmy her hips. She will wink and gesticulate and posture and pose and vamp. She will pout and slither and "come hither." She will never admit to you the secret, which is that there is no secret, and if she were to speak, her words would be springtime and roses sunk in the heart of winter.