Lynne Thompson

A LOVER, REJECTED, REJECTS THE MYTH THAT IS BILLIE HOLIDAY—

knows she was an uncommon arroyo who understood
   that blue on the quintile is a withering thing;

knows Billie lived in an upended Vermont and was
   not unlike a nova or a seed in a scalawag’s belly;

figures that La Gardenia’s mistake was believing that
   autumn in New York would make a satisfactory break

and that junk was the best horse she never saddled.
   But I have learned to beware the tonsils of swivelhipped

conquerors whose lanolin cannot absorb
   loneliness. I have gotten lost in the politics of

undressed mud and am no longer obliged to lie down
   with fat cats. When I am too scared to dream,

I, my own bald-faced tympani, admonish my dismal pen
   to publish the music that will alarm my arrogant judges.

–from Rattle #22, Winter 2004