A river runs past us
with its talking fish, their mouths
spewing question marks,
silver hooks in our lips.
It’s cold up here—and lonely.
Those who love us
wonder why we waste time
stringing syllables together
into something as vague as language.

The echo is a frozen wind
on this mountain of words, its peak
hidden in the clouds.
A wordless sickness threatens
to settle in, a thousand-year winter,
so we shout out loud
words that end with letter Z;
words that encompass a life,
like birth, death, and all
that shit in-between; words that eat,
burp, leak, and make us sneeze.

Even those we could care
less about, like tax, duct tape,
and crotch, they, too, get their due.
Some we’d like to wipe off
the face of the earth; some
we can’t do without. Blue words,
for example. (Wait, what?
you ask, and I give you the sky.)

Also, words that hide
in the grass and may bite,
words with polka dots.
Words I dream about sometimes
but would only admit it
to you. Words that make you go
‘hey!’ Words we place on top
of other words, slip under,
tuck behind other words.
Words we grow tired of listing.
Draining words, the kind
that turn our muscles to jelly;
juggling words that should
belong in a circus but don’t.

Now you ask for my ice
crampons and furred gloves.
I, for your rappelling rope
and non-skid boots.
You plan to ascend.
I’m going down to the valley.
Peak, valley, chasm.
The snow melts inside vowels,
the toothy rocks of consonants
glisten in river beds.
Words upon words crackle
like plexiglass into the hazy
cauldron of morning.

Romana Iorga

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