Control (I Bet You Think This Poem's About You)

Forgive me, Janet,

but it happened during a conversation

about whether you had your breasts

enlarged or your stomach flattened

or your ass tightened (or all three

or any two of the three).

That’s when I realized

how closely revising a poem

could resemble (or “seam/seem like”) plastic surgery, and how those of us who have them

(poems or plastic surgeries)

try to keep things to ourselves. And so

not only is this poem for you, but it is you,

because, after all, don’t you get sick of being critiqued?

A poem (yes, a poem, not a poet)

once taught me how good it feels

not to have any eyes with you. 

Scratch “with you.”

I meant “on you.”

I’m sure you can relate,

as you spend your not-so-free time

hoping your personal life

isn’t ferreted out of the album notes,

interpreted from the lilt of your voice,

or treated as if you’re nothing more

than an image in a 60 year long music video.  Like Tina. By the way,

I was the dude in that nasty car eatin’ that nasty food

jammin’ to your nasty groove.

And I dig your hair frizzy. 

Likewise, I dig my poems raw,

which is just my exaggerated way

of saying I dig poems with rough edges. And people too.

Did I mention I didn’t offer an opinion

about your ass, stomach, or cup size?

But if you ask me,

I think you should edit that mole. 

Exactly why did you put it in there anyway? 

Scratch that.

I meant “on there.”

I’m actually serious (do you realize that?)

when I say I’d do anything for the satisfaction

of writing a poem that could move like you.  Dance like you.

Sing(e) like a moth to a flame.

That’s

the

way

poems go, I guess.

Give them your thoughts, get back a penny.

• Кайли Миноуг (Kylie Minogue)
• Kate Beckinsale