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This language I exalt in,
with verbs to delight my slinking synapses,
is sticky and playful and coy.
The finest words rest in the most untouched
pages of dictionaries,
waiting to be unwrapped like scandals.

There are so many words I want to grow old with.
sardonic, ballerina, chandelier, July, tubular

Adjectives play through my hair
like lice who've discovered a daycare center.
They smear color and texture and fragrance over
my walls
my body
the remaining years of my life
that sleep in the fetal position under my bed.

Nouns have held me while I cried.
Interjections have fought the subtlest wars on my behalf.

Speaking of...

  • A poem by Lisa McLemore


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