We Were All Told Not To Tell
Don’t tell anyone; it’s a secret.
Suddenly the hidden Poetry Market became desirable to share.
Only real poets are invited, I confide.
I wrote a poem once, she whispers, when I was eight.
Another poet who was supposed to be in the secret sidles up to my left ear and hisses, “You
Aren’t telling him about….” Making me jump.
Of course not, I say, indignantly, ashamed and astonished to be caught.
My ears are hot. Deceit is written all over my face, especially between my nose and my eyes.
Hissing Poet glares at me. “I know you are telling people,” she says. My T-zone is red, pointing like an arrow to my deceiving heart that has violated another’s confidence.
The more secretive the Poetry Market was portrayed, the more appealing it was to mention it, to a select few. It’s not like I’m telling everybody! I justify to myself. Myself scoffs.
My face turns a hard right. Whisper. Whisper. I see someone point. One laughs. They look at me and laugh again. Are they whispering about me? I don’t even know them!
It’s strange but the more secretive the Poetry Market was portrayed, the more desirable it was to break this not-so-smartly-earned-confidence. We were all told not to tell!
I see another in-the-know poet share the location through a secretive language, sign.
I run up to her to point out this violation of trust.
The irony is not wasted on her.
My reputation has preceded me.
Using her finger as an arrow, she points to directions I had written down on a yellow post it note.
It was lying at my feet, in my tell-tale writing.
The next time the coven decides to build a secret market for poets, I would appreciate being
Left out of it.
This is simply too disturbing!
Copyright © Caren Krutsinger | Year Posted 2018