The Truth

The truth is, she would just as soon not delve too deeply
into things: her secret psychic race, for instance – how it brings
two prepubescent twelve year old green, yellow girls into their

endless whirl around around around circuitously overlapping trails
that evidently took and take, will take, have taken them to some
patched version of themselves – herself – that make and made

her the amalgam ring-a-dings they are, she is, will be and was –
she’d just as soon forget the whirring buzz – the spell it casts –
how it impels a yearning to unite with something that keeps

passing just precisely at the instant that it ought to light, ignite
epiphany, a recompense: the girls come whizzing by and miss
each other’s outstretched arms again and she will not, no, she

will not, no, not at all will she say one word, not a single word,
until they reach each other, stop, embrace and kiss. And here
they go on by again, again, and no, she will not speak till then.




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