Just as I move to sound the word
I start again, fall between the place
my mouth begins and the place
it makes something: the sudden here
synonymous with place and loss,
the dark world holding my body
differently. Every night I wake
at the point I try to speak
because I am trying to speak.
Because a sound breaks out.
There is no way to try a word
when silenced by it. The dark
outside will never show the inside
of my mouth back to me.
Losing that word over and over
is the same trouble as what
I carry. Maybe all lost things are
meanings beyond here and now.
Maybe there are no metaphors,
just what is true and what is true.
Copyright © 2013 by Rae Gouirand. “Language” originally appeared in The Brooklyner. Used with permission of the author.
Rae Gouirand is the author of two books of poetry: Glass is Glass Water is Water (Spork Press, 2018) and Open Winter (Bellday Books, 2011), winner of the Bellday Prize. She holds an MFA from the University of Michigan and is a lecturer in the Department of English at the University of California-Davis.
Date Published: 2018-08-20
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/language-1