by Ella Duffy

I shall have the last word,
snatch it as it loops to its
full self, newt-like, belly
oiled with vowels,
only to flip it back;

a thin ghost of itself,
now tadpole, pond skater,
to flit from lobe to drum,
drown, as new sounds
bubble from your lips.

If I’m quick, I’ll catch
a full cluster — think
frogspawn — a string
of words, writhing,
still warm, to lob back,
burst where you stand.