by Liza Steinberg

I am not mad, I assure you;
Here is proof of my sanity:
Eyes crossed over, genes messed further.
Joy wrapped up neatly in vanity.

Golden locks tied to my thighs,
White coloured sticks bleached to the bone,
Tapping the keys of my black beast that sighs.

And the sunlight – too much –
That I tie onto skin,
Golden strings, golden locks,
Now they’re together – here, it’s time to begin.

Sunlight and hair, the best things to wear,
Ordered white and black, I contrast you.
There are sticks, there are dots, there is wood that don’t rot.
Proof of sense, I adore you, adore you.

If I just stood still, dressed with sunlight on skin,
Then I’m sure you could prove that I’m mad.
But I give you these notes, so you smile and dote,
On this crazy woman of golden hair, of notes seduced from white and black bare.
Do you realise that I don’t really care?

Black and white will be keyed; I’ll demand this – my need.
And forget and not be aware.
You can watch if you like, stand and stare,
But I’ve told you, my sanity’s there.