He was tuxedo English,
but when he decided to correct her grammar
she looked him up
& matched his clean words with dirty ones
to coax him out of his clothes,
only to discover that this stuffed shirt
under all that spiffy black-&-white
was a T-shirt that didn’t know
to separate itself from red.
She wrote fiction
when she wanted to forget herself;
when she wanted to remember herself;
but when she wanted to just be herself,
she wrote poetry.
As a writer,
she didn’t let people live rent-free in her head,
evicted them to the page
& gave them their just desserts,
which were anything but
just or sweet.