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Na-da
Nada, he said nothing to me.
I don’t wanna tell you.
Hushed silent fan, whooshes,
Na-da.
Quiet and quieter, reveling revelations,
Prickled and bitten fingers and fingernails of winter chafed in spoiled baskets of blueberry berries.
Her hands in coat pockets and altered sleeves of giant robes,
Obligating her talent to alteration of her life, she shakes her head.
Nada, in affirmation rounding up her noodle in an I don’t know,
What do you know.
What hushed up fan of yours would tell, somewhere
in the admiring, the woman reveals how to be a woman.
She’ll tell you the secret if you let her,
step by step intrinsic to her sex.
Don’t say you are the woman, That if women’s ways you are knowing. you'd know
Yes, you think, nada
You know nada.
