You should never ever write or even speak the name of the Big
Cheese—oops, sorry, my bad—up above, never take the name of
the dairy product made with rennet in vain. Same goes for me.
You may think I’m only a blue-veined squirt of a Roquefort or a
Swiss full of holes, but listen to me. Someday a cunning devil with
a black demon box of a device will urge you to relax and to smile.
The cunning one will ask you to say the word that begins with C
that tells what I am. Don’t. It’s a trick to steal the moment. You’ll
squint at nothing throughout eternity. You’ll need a haircut forever.
It’s a scam to capture your soul, a fatal game, that looking at the
little birdie and saying the forbidden C word. If you do hear a click,
a snap like the snap of a very tiny mousetrap, you’ve already lost.
Joe Smith poet
Honoria Starbuck illustration