Worn new, again and again

She confronts an object, strange upon the page,
and cracks it sound by sound. Slow sibilant,
popped plosive, rhotic smile, bowing diphthong,
all concluded with a light dental stop:
s-p-r-ou-t.

A word is a machine fuelled by sound.
Disassemble the parts then piece it back
together, a sonic code for blueprints.
It’s newly built each time it’s discovered,
driving the motion of thought.

A word is a plant, cultivated from ancestor
varieties, that grows in the mind.
Its roots swell and signal to others
along the networks of earth,
grounding your fertile tongue.

A word is an animal
that stubbornly blocks the sentence
and will not be caged or tamed.

A word is a light sparked from lips;
another street lamp added
to avenues of cortex,
brightening the brain’s map.

A word is a home
that encloses the distance
between ink and eye. Make it
your own and walls widen.

Her mind and tongue have united
symbol and sound.The dissected pieces
are reattached and emerge whole,
sprouting from her mouth.

ruth