You don't have a contingency
plan, nothing remotely like a blueprint
for going deeper into the mines,
not a single notion of how to shut
the trap door against the invasion
of doubts strung taut on a line. Too many
suddenly loud voices run parallel arguments
to go, to stay, to run, to hide, to just sit tight.
I fall flat.
I don't have a substitute, no one
stand-in to dance me around
and through the twists of words meant
to shore up the meanings intended,
to pick through fragments, snippets,
jottings of foreign spellings still needing
translation to give a clever story an ending
faithful to the vow of happily ever after.
© 2011 Maureen E. Doallas