Dear Copyeditor,
I would have said,
my dear
copyeditor,
but god knows,
the nuances of affection
are lost on you.
I am writing you
this poem
the way a gazelle
must grow ever sleeker
and quicker
to escape
the indelicate jaws
of the lion.
You are a butcher,
a brute.
I have tried to tell you
all this before,
but you — lounging
there in the shade, twitching
a tin ear, lazily
licking between your
claws like commas —
have torn through all
my objections.
Look how casually
you have rent them in two,
making good, as usual
out of what
was once only
good as usual.
Photo Credit: “Furry Friends,” by Makia Minich (CC) [source]
Alison Leigh Lilly 