Someday I will appear on the back of a book.
Who I am will be splayed on the dust jacket,
the back part, the black and white photo
where my face is cocked sideways
a bit, alluring, leading, longing
quite possibly lounging on a red chair, my right leg
tossed like a sweaty gardening shirt
over the velveteen arm. I look awash in
knowing and concupiscence, alert while
innocuously insouciant, a writer for the times,
the bedfellow my readers confer with or confess to,
magnificent ringleader that I will be, gathering
the hoipoloi around me like a herd
of somnambulistic lions drowsy on blood but
ready for more action.
There will be more than two sentences about me.
Who I am will remind everyone of their own penchant
for some deserved if miniscule prominence
and they will be glad it is I who have attained recognition,
I who have the log cabin in the country
perched beside a working windmill
and naturally-occurring pond where I live prosperously
with my husband, an artist
and two children who read beyond their ages.
The masses will memorize me.
Who I am will percolate and permeate synapse and cell,
skin and soul. My incendiary words will be etched
like a child’s initials in freshly poured concrete,
for infinity even after sleep marks the end of the rhyme.