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004

Now that I know the equator is a piece of sticky tape,
I’m nailing shut the door on know-it-alls who wish me to feel
small beside the Universe, who think I ought to scrape
and bow because of all the big-whoop facts they spiel.

Catastrophists, like cuckoo birds, adapt. They steal
from nests of joy, replacing eggs with sour grapes
and asteroids en route. With them, I’ll make no deal,
now that I know the equator is a piece of sticky tape.

Then there’s the godly ones, who think I ought to gape
because they’ve memorized some book. Oh, how they reel
while I am busy thinking of the best ways to escape.
I’m nailing shut the door on know-it-alls who want me to feel

sinful or afraid, ashamed, insisting that I humbly reveal
my flaws. Pshaw, I’m fine! In faith and fashion, I drape
myself with silken happiness. You will not see me kneel
small beside the Universe. Who think I ought to scrape

instead of taking leaps of faith have not seen my cape.
They think my powers are fake because they learned to heel
and forgot to unlearn it. Anger makes such people shake
and bow because of all the big-whoop facts they spiel.

Experts, every day, release new studies that reveal—
that’s nice, it truly is, but I’m too fidgety too wait.
I educate at my own pace, trusting it’s enough to feel
my way, with plenty more to joyfully anticipate,
now that I know.

~~~

This piece is a rondeau redoublé, otherwise known as “poetry that comes to me while dusting.” (After taking the photo, I tore off the rest of the equator, and the world seems to be holding up fine.)

© Elaine Stirling, 2014

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