D.E.

February 28, 2014

D.E.

“...This research was carried out on D.E. who was born in 1954. In 1970 he was involved in a motor-scooter accident. A bilateral carotid angiogram...revealed almost total occlusion of the left internal carotid artery... His speech output consists primarily of 3-4 words arranged in simple syntactic structures... He is currently employed as a store keeper...”

His name might be David, or Donald,

or Daniel. He might have blond hair

or brown, blue eyes or green. He is currently

employed as a store keeper.

At sixteen I still held my first kiss as precious,

I daydreamed about what I might want to study in college,

and I began to learn how to put words together in just the right way

in an attempt to form something beautiful.

He speaks softly, maybe with a self-conscious smile.

He is currently employed as a store keeper.

Birdsong

September 30, 2012

Birdsong

I open my window to let in the morning.

Beyond the sill, the birds bring on daylight, their wings

shining in the sunrise. Sparrows here, sparrows there,

flying in flocks with such mathematical grace, such

lovely arithmetic: tessellating in mid-

air, geometric shapes.Their pitched sounds follow them,

too musical to be language, too deliberate

to be song. What instinct could be so intricate?

One small winged thing lands delicately in front

of me, tilts its head, and chirps. Surprised, I reply,

but my concave mouth is shaped wrong, and the air ca-

tches on my teeth. I blink. The sparrow calls again.

My voice searches for sounds as sweet, but suddenly

I am tone-deaf against such perfect pitch. I try

to mimic in english, then spanish, maybe some

mandarin, but I can’t seem to get the notes right,

throat too complex to sing as purely as pan pipes,

too old to learn these melodic oscillations.

Little bird, little bird, perched on my window: as

you twitter and trill, what riddles do you tell, with

your ambisyllabic sonorants? What sonnets

do you spout, with their jumps, leaps, and resolutions?

Brown bird, you take off and familiarity

dissolves like a fog clearing; each wingbeat reveals

a glittering, alien scene,

                                        a strange new sun

rising on a foreign country, a foreign world.

Somniloquy

September 7, 2012

Somniloquy

i.

My head still rests

on your chest, and I think

you’ve fallen into sleep.

I can hear very clearly

each breath you take;

the movement of air

creates a slow, deep resonance

in your lungs and in my ear.

The sound is low and grumbling:

a thunder reluctant to cross the gray

cloudy sky, sad to signal

the impending autumn.

The slight rain, though, is cool against

late summer’s heat – quick

and cold, its song

awakens the skin, and I can

feel

       each

               drop.

ii.

A murmur escapes your lips.

it’s just a whisper, but suddenly

I am filled with a longing to know

what you’re saying, what secrets

or lists you’re reciting from.

I want to understand your idiolect,

write definitions for your personal lexicon,

transcribe the orthographical patterns

of your sleepy speech.  I could map out

the acoustics of every apical consonant,

the irish fricatives and african clicks –

sounds all strung together, or perhaps

clipped short by your teeth.

I want to imitate your fine-print

tonal shifts until I’m tongue-tied.

I want to decipher this rhapsody

of vibrations in the air,

interpret this revue of breath

shaped by your throat and your mouth.

You mumble on for a bit, and then

you’re quiet again, breathing in

and out,

low and deep.

I’m left with a moment of wonder:

a strange and lovely sensation,

like a small glimpse

of pages filled

with someone else’s words.

iii.

The smooth, even cadence

of your heartbeat, at least

seems to say love you,

love you,

love you,

and maybe this is only me hoping,

but I don’t think that’s sleep

talking.

Alalia syllabaris

December 15, 2010

won 2nd place in 2011 Sokol High School Literary Awards

Alalia syllabaris

I am

thick-lipped,

tongue-tied,

the words in my mouth

glass marbles that I

cannot spit out. 

If only these ideas

could articulate themselves,

clipped and clean and clear

like harpsichord staccato,

clockwork clicking,

or horses’ hooves

on cobblestone.

My language

would be as precise

as the lunar curves

of an eclipse,

lovelier than ice sculptures

carved and shaped

into masterpieces.

But my phrases slur,

like rain stammering, stammering

on roofs, streets, oceans,

making meaningless messes

of my simple thoughts.

Try as I might to master

the slick, quick turnarounds,

the sharp resolve of each word,

my sentences inevitably become

myopic, impressionist,

finger-painted interpretations

of the sentiments

I cannot communicate.