I lose the word comb and the verb to comb. I do not lose
the kinesics of combing, so rooted in its muscular logic,
in the crushed stems of aromatic herbs to steep in water
and pour through the hair. now it is only me, my mirror,
my infinite semaphore, and no comb. we could do this over
with any other word. try me with spindle or basket or feathercap.

I leave them in the dark room among all the other unclaimed luggage
with indefinable margins. I say there is a dog in the dark room
but there are also: violists, pamphlets, charred silk, men
with overbites and women who are not sad, only waiting.
there is so much to say and when I can no longer say dog I’ll bark
till you know what I mean. everything the approximation
of the thing, fifteen words to say the thing without saying
anything. once I was flesh-and-blood on a far continent.
now I am yes, yes and how are you and a hundred recursions of fine.

when the mother tongue is lost, there is no autopsy. there is only
one word for sad. there are small bottled lotions I pocket in midwest
hotels. they say sandal wood and smell like my grandmother’s hair,
wide-toothed grimace held in the hand. there are never enough
fingers to parse a tangled lexis. what remains are factoids,
the word turned fetish. here is how I say my name. here
is how I write my name. here, now let me write your name. this s
and this s are not the same but I couldn’t tell you why.