Poem: Mystique

 Mystique

gremlins bubble

in detergent, dishwater, cups and plates,

or when i make lemonade.

 

too many to appease,

each neglected and miffed.

resonance of my dormant cello.

 

i hide

when they peep from my apron,

or frolic in travertine shine.

 

cloying gremlins,

same as honey on everything,

or plunging my tongue into lard.

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10/29/23 ... I tried to make this poem a little more engaging, changing a couple phrases.

Inspired by The Feminine Mystique