Editing Poem by Jenny Kalahar

Editing what felt right when "the end" was first typed
reading again with harsher eyes
until pupils and lashes dry against the pages.
Saying everything silently, there in my head
rehearsing for the perhaps-reader
imagining them throwing book against wall
criticizing a comma that shouldn't have been there at all.
Hating a word choice I thought I had right
sneering at body language
forgetting day is night
forgetting where characters sat
or if they are skinny, or if they are cats.
Go through it all again and again
having characters smile, having them laugh
finding new words for the ones that feel tired
adding in color and heightening desire.
That raise of an eyebrow—is it good enough?
Should there be questions asked
or is silence understood?
The editor in me knows that it's well past bedtime
but she's still in the groove
the sentences leave behind.
Will there be a moment when she can close her book's file
and call the thing done
call it created
admit it's defeated her
or admit that it lives?
The editor crawls off to bed at long last
but problems of plot and of timeline swirl before closed eyes
and a light is turned on to jot notes and reminders
while the dog and the husband
groan and growl beside her.
Will there be a moment when the book is complete?
I don't know the answer—
that's never happened to me