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

are nudged from your silence.


If I’m quick, I’ll catch

a full cluster — think

frogspawn — a string

of words, writhing,

still warm, to lob back,

burst at where you stand.

unpublished poem, © Ella Duffy 2019, used by permission of the author.

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