I started           with an interesting title

to hook the reader in

added a bit of magic                twisting balloon giraffes,

inspecting ice

holes

in Montreal waiting for the seal to gasp

I learned that taxidermists

prefer the term mounting        over stuffing;

and realistic dialogue,

like “Oh!”       and       “no thank you”

occurs when offered a cinnamon oyster 
or the way out. 
I remembered to show, not tell.
I gave hints,

            hid clues in the third drawer down and under stones,

waited for the smoke to rise in letters

that spelt my truth        sold secrets in the souk

amongst sacks of turmeric and cumin

stuck notes like grillchecks on a narwal horn,

drummed

my

nails

against the harbour wall in a king tide

and      followed           the       march  of         the        lemon 	ants.
I’m done with showing 
Today I’m telling                    with the whistle of a blue whale, vibrating

your vision, making it temporarily difficult to swallow
telling                                       with the aural bullet train

before the earthquake 
telling                                       with the tiny snuffle of a newborn firstborn
with full mouthed hawking phlegm                   untuned bagpipe drones in A&E
rural volunteer fire crews in high summer 
and the daughters of the river god, Achelous
telling you
that I don’t think your rules

ever fit my story