Why did Sontag die
when I was nine?
that our lives might have collided
on the cliff of time!
I bet she wore tobacco like perfume
Just as anyone in vogue would douse themselves in CK One
As she lay dying
“The Dark Lady of American Letters”
they named her
And down the decades her strident cry
received a reel of paper praise
From critics who would cast
their nets into the New-Wave.
I wonder what it would have been like
her incandescence for syllables and their footwork?
A peddler of belles lettres–
Rebel of the sexes who loved in equal measure
A man’s robustness and a woman’s softness!
On foggy days, when my brain brims with stanzas ,
I look across the shore at the so-called
And hear the song of her bullets fired
into the spray.