Queen of the Make-Believe

I.

I have a way with language,

according to my mother.

I borrow and unravel

the tongues of the far-away

people. My greatest skill, though,

is interpreting the coy

dialects of the spaces

II.

dwelling between anodyne

utterance. I am the star

Commander in Chief of all

the thousand scintillations,

dripping the poison that spilled

over the rim of the bowl

onto Loki’s head, with such

III.

saccharine acidity.

Silence isn’t free. Silence

isn’t silence. Clamorous

mating calls, accusations,

rage, bioluminescent

disappointment, heavy-breathe

paltry significances

IV.

to the poignant, pregnant pause

that lives between “It’s” and “fine.”

I point the finger, and cry

mendacity! Gather now

the sticks, spool the tender flame

for witch’s stake; what a fine

burning to be had! Make sure

V.

you get here early, in time

to get a good seat. Turns out,

you can’t burn that which is ash

already. I, Cassandra,

cursed with knowledge only I

can see. Words only I can

hear, evidences that the

VI.

puppets didn’t really like

me after all. I believed

I was hated; so I made

it true, against my frail will.

Insidiously snaking

in all the unsaid places;

which abides there—lies, or truth?

VII.

All I know is how to heed

the noiseless whispers, and not

what is spoken. Suspicious

way to live; desolate too.

I reject myself before

a stranger can, all because

I bow to the silent words.