To Her Critic

Her poems digest what you keep:
this unusual, spirited skepsis that reeks
of performance and sleek derogatory
speak—
it’s making her mind leak
of sadness.
This ain’t a trick.
Can’t you predict,
looking at its form and meters?
This bleak disapproval of rhythm is weak
and very mentally sick.
It creates
a vacuum
in all words and meanings.
How do you break a heart?
You think
like it doesn’t exist.
You persist
in staking the wrists
in matters.
You blink—
and the heart inks
are all over the sink.
Who cares?
Words don’t matter.
How does a heart live
in a woman of letters?