by Tracy Rice Weber
After the appointment I look up the word
because there are loop-holes I might find to
create an escape hatch from misunderstanding; but
dictionary definitions won’t lie
even when I am desperate
for the good omen
God and Webster might provide.
How does pervasive stack blocks against time?
Isn’t he alphabet singing earlier than most
just as his brother did? What
kind of grief can ease the headwind they say
language will bring? Small miracle,
metric feet have walked us this far.
Now we begin again—a rebirth
of sorts. The pieces scattered, jigsaw
puzzles don’t come easily.
Questions should come with answer keys.
Remind me again how lucky we are.
Say developmental disorder with a full, clear
throat. Mention the ticker tape parade
under which we all march, wondering in
vain whether we might be spared. It could be
worse they say, assuming divine insight could take
x-rays of the fracture, conjure logical formulas before I
yaw toward a calculus of changed values thinking
zero plus anything would have to be enough.
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