She doesn’t visibly acknowledge
feedback on the microphone,
but feels its wispy vibrations like
a swarm of plump honey bees.

Their swirls distract and please her;
she forgets to scan the blank faces
searching for a flaw, one jagged nail
scratching her neck or pantyhose missing
under her black picot sheath.

Confident under the fleur de lis,
she plans ahead to drinking Belle Gueule
with some crooning fellow caught up
in her fame, doesn’t dwell on her first time
with a fingerbowl, delicate cherry blossoms
she plucked out and chewed, followed
by tepid lemon-infused water—
she craves disaster, like red wine
clenching carpet fibers, indigo ink
soaking white paper.

She invites the warm spiral
of doubt to bloom in the audience
as they wonder if she will finally unhinge,
blinking, fluttering fingers,
a dandelion shaken clean.