Kill Your Darlings – Hester L. Furey

Hester L. Furey

Kill your darlings,
we say, but do not believe it.
Having numbered our feathers
for just such an occasion,
we seek to give them eternal life.
Writers sit around a table,
on a warmish night
two days past equinox,
listening to one man
talking much too much.
It is all very serious.
I silently rehearse my escape.
As usual, his work is the worst.
He hasn’t even brought copies
and is not a good reader.
The beautiful, anxious face
of the poet at his right
stabs at my consciousness.
She is the rising star this evening,
anyone with one good eye can see it,
but Yeats had it right,
and she says little.
The bouncing, volatile dogs
have all gone home.
A moth dances, giddy,
beneath the light.

Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply