Footloose

I’ve been here, on this rock,

for over half a century, defending myself against the Trojan chorus:

antistrophe erasing strophe, refusing dialogue,

insisting on one controlled narrative,

all front-loaded moralizing locked into a

vacuum, oxygen-deprived, holding aloft the scalp of truth,

decisively declaring it dead.

The bells robbed of clappers cannot toll

my latest death,

decreed not an important one:

the tournament continues, with one

interruption

for a word from your sponsor,

followed by

a victory dance on my tomb,

where I refuse

to climb in and bear witness,

kicking these wretched shoes

into this absurd hole in the ground,

I laugh with Persephone,

dance away from your artificial turf,

back into the forest,

weaving flowers from

another funeral through my hair.

I prefer a pyre.