To Observers of My Composure (Meghan)

To Observers of My Composure

I stand this way because I am a singer,

performing from velvet shoulders—back—

diaphragm—supported, and

because when I was thirteen I learned

that I look thinner —though taller—when erect,

but I’m willing to make the trade.

I sit this way because a lady in a dress is a lady.

This woman in this dress knows that

first you’ll think my waters run dry, basins of

a body that must have been made for filling,

despite the stream you can’t envision that cut

these beds, unless I sit up straight.

I speak this way because a measured sentence

settles nicely in the ear, respects the faculties

of listeners and slides off the tongue in

satisfying precision.  The time to say

enigma and puzzle is almost the same,

but only one means what I mean.

Because you hear my slipping “s” sounds

when I’m tired.  You think it’s sexy, but

I try and can't believe you.

(And sometimes

I stand and sit and speak this way

because I’m afraid of you, of what you’ll do

when you find me slouching, quiet, empty—

a glass of fine champagne left broken

on this marble terrace, where the pedestal

cracked and fell.

I’m afraid of you, and

I don’t want you to know.)