Aftermath (Ghazal)
by Mary Cresswell
What fresh hell is this where I’’m accused of telling lies?
I never ever once complained when you were selling lies!
Test me! Try to race the wind while drinking China tea.
We’ll raise Madame Sosotris in her fortune-telling guise.
Q: If nearly night is close to day, is October maybe May?
A: The final count, they say, depends on where the telling lies.
Your nouns all rot and turn to verbs. Your useless syntax rocks
on its edge. Your least ejaculations are spilling lies.
In the ready reckoning, each cloud king dreams he’ll revere
what really counts: an abacus for telling lies.
No. No numbers. What counts is who and when and where
and if you join King Lear in counting gilded butterflies.
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