Hangman
Every new word we learn is a small loss
In the realm of limitless possibility
To define is to cement in solidity
And narrow the confines of maneuverability
Everything fragments and the pieces
Become small things in need of names.
This lion. That river. Those motes of dust in the air.
Predators and prey.
Hangman.
Prayer.
Wife.
Lover.
Son.
Your very own mother.
Already this poem has eliminated
A million alternative paths
And we’ll never know which was best.
Sleeping or dreaming. Waking or illusion.
It can go the other way too— words lacking all
Specificity. A room. A meadow.
Forest.
Wasteland.
Frontier.
American.
Ohioan.
Immigrant.
Citizen.
Alone again.
To love again.
Even beauty mourns its loss
Speechless
Sublime beyond words
It can only be calculated.
I caught a glimpse of her smiling in the sun splashed foyer
And marveled at the math of it
.
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