loosed associations
how many times can i say something in me must come out before i’m forced to define something, to
confront how it got in me in the first place, to say with teeth and tongue what it means to come out. yes,
a blade is involved. like gutting something dead, only i’m still living. like the rack hanging above the
desk, only i have not shed my velvet. like the touch of something unwanted, and again that vague blur
of a word. something, something, can you not stand to fill in my blank? can i not abstract that which i
cannot say? fear, pain, blood, a birth. scratch the last, though we’re getting close. when i say only,
allowed is implied. i will not say outright! if you want it, you must work for it, same as i did. i ask
nothing of you i would not ask myself. you must be willing to put in the effort to reach the
reward. the reward is knowing something like me. listen, if i could take your hand and guide you there, i would. but
i can’t. i have only this pretty font, these useless words, the appear-disappear of the cursor as i pause.
you don’t even have that, and what to do for it. there is flesh burning above a metal coil. the bill is
moving up by the second. once, there was a boy— i’m struggling to remember his name now, though it
will come to me, i’m sure— once, he offered my a strip of meat from his plastic pouch. his buzzed head
like a dark q-tip. his grin without teeth. my teeth digging in. all creatures are alike, but never the same.
the tongue of one thing makes sound. the tongue of another remains silent. i am the first thing. the
dead are the last. and what to do for it? i ate what was offered, and enjoyed it. i will eat again once the
smoke clears from the stove. i know what it is to feel blood dry. to feel the trigger release. to miss the
mark. to startle the beast. to take a life. nearly, not quite.
confront how it got in me in the first place, to say with teeth and tongue what it means to come out. yes,
a blade is involved. like gutting something dead, only i’m still living. like the rack hanging above the
desk, only i have not shed my velvet. like the touch of something unwanted, and again that vague blur
of a word. something, something, can you not stand to fill in my blank? can i not abstract that which i
cannot say? fear, pain, blood, a birth. scratch the last, though we’re getting close. when i say only,
allowed is implied. i will not say outright! if you want it, you must work for it, same as i did. i ask
nothing of you i would not ask myself. you must be willing to put in the effort to reach the
reward. the reward is knowing something like me. listen, if i could take your hand and guide you there, i would. but
i can’t. i have only this pretty font, these useless words, the appear-disappear of the cursor as i pause.
you don’t even have that, and what to do for it. there is flesh burning above a metal coil. the bill is
moving up by the second. once, there was a boy— i’m struggling to remember his name now, though it
will come to me, i’m sure— once, he offered my a strip of meat from his plastic pouch. his buzzed head
like a dark q-tip. his grin without teeth. my teeth digging in. all creatures are alike, but never the same.
the tongue of one thing makes sound. the tongue of another remains silent. i am the first thing. the
dead are the last. and what to do for it? i ate what was offered, and enjoyed it. i will eat again once the
smoke clears from the stove. i know what it is to feel blood dry. to feel the trigger release. to miss the
mark. to startle the beast. to take a life. nearly, not quite.
mother tongue
grew up saying grappa but let the world
lengthen the word into grampa or grandpa
depending on who’s around.
met a brother from the father she never met
and heard his lips let out a missing consonant,
the take-back of grand into something more familiar.
i don’t know why my hackles raised, but they did.
stories about a grandfather none of them ever knew
taking a bride from somewhere without running water
and offering her the ability to wash with an added r.
when my roommate said warsh without a beat
i felt like i was struck like i was home.
i love a shared tongue when i’m the one sharing it.
exclusion erodes me.
it’s not always a conscious decision.
the brother’s boy sniffed around my ankles
til i clung to her skirts like i was once more a child
though she didn’t wear skirts and i didn’t cling.
brother mike said he’s made mistakes, but
he was raised right. a cousin is a cousin is
a cousin. a boy’s a boy’s a boy.
we went to the family grave that shared blood
but no memory.
listened to stories i can’t recall
and shot photographs beneath the beating sun.
the guns were all locked up but their presence
in the house was known without needing
to be announced.
what does it mean to learn the father you shared
chose to end his life without ever knowing yours?
there was grief hiding somewhere
but no one was willing to look.
grew up playing hide and seek with ghosts
but still fear death more than anything else.
what does it mean to lay claim to a family that wasn’t yours?
she got her answer and ran, i’m the only one still asking questions.
don’t know where i got my tongue aside from the books
i churned through. sound like no one i know, though
we share the same eyes.
i don’t know why my hackles raise when anyone says
we look alike. don’t know why my hands wanted
to say alive instead of alike, but they did.
my command of language is loose and flexing.
i can string words together only when they’re written down.
she can talk for hours and hours but she never passed down her
gift. maybe those who can’t do are the only ones who teach, but
those who taught her died before i came into being
and i still don’t know what any of it’s meant to mean.
she can’t match tune but catches the tail of casual phrases,
strings them into song, punctuates conversation with lyrics
drawn out from memory.
i have a cormorant throat, good for catching but lacking song.
i can match tune but haven’t the memory for lyrics.
my thoughts trail only from the line of my throat to the
fisherman’s hand. i’ve never needed a lure,
wanted always to free the worms.
never fished for sport but couldn’t bear to eat the catch.
me and her, we sat bare at the end of the dock
dipped our toes into the wet. she never learned to swim
but someone must’ve taught me. i never learned to float,
but not for lack of trying.
lengthen the word into grampa or grandpa
depending on who’s around.
met a brother from the father she never met
and heard his lips let out a missing consonant,
the take-back of grand into something more familiar.
i don’t know why my hackles raised, but they did.
stories about a grandfather none of them ever knew
taking a bride from somewhere without running water
and offering her the ability to wash with an added r.
when my roommate said warsh without a beat
i felt like i was struck like i was home.
i love a shared tongue when i’m the one sharing it.
exclusion erodes me.
it’s not always a conscious decision.
the brother’s boy sniffed around my ankles
til i clung to her skirts like i was once more a child
though she didn’t wear skirts and i didn’t cling.
brother mike said he’s made mistakes, but
he was raised right. a cousin is a cousin is
a cousin. a boy’s a boy’s a boy.
we went to the family grave that shared blood
but no memory.
listened to stories i can’t recall
and shot photographs beneath the beating sun.
the guns were all locked up but their presence
in the house was known without needing
to be announced.
what does it mean to learn the father you shared
chose to end his life without ever knowing yours?
there was grief hiding somewhere
but no one was willing to look.
grew up playing hide and seek with ghosts
but still fear death more than anything else.
what does it mean to lay claim to a family that wasn’t yours?
she got her answer and ran, i’m the only one still asking questions.
don’t know where i got my tongue aside from the books
i churned through. sound like no one i know, though
we share the same eyes.
i don’t know why my hackles raise when anyone says
we look alike. don’t know why my hands wanted
to say alive instead of alike, but they did.
my command of language is loose and flexing.
i can string words together only when they’re written down.
she can talk for hours and hours but she never passed down her
gift. maybe those who can’t do are the only ones who teach, but
those who taught her died before i came into being
and i still don’t know what any of it’s meant to mean.
she can’t match tune but catches the tail of casual phrases,
strings them into song, punctuates conversation with lyrics
drawn out from memory.
i have a cormorant throat, good for catching but lacking song.
i can match tune but haven’t the memory for lyrics.
my thoughts trail only from the line of my throat to the
fisherman’s hand. i’ve never needed a lure,
wanted always to free the worms.
never fished for sport but couldn’t bear to eat the catch.
me and her, we sat bare at the end of the dock
dipped our toes into the wet. she never learned to swim
but someone must’ve taught me. i never learned to float,
but not for lack of trying.
BEE LB is an array of letters, bound to impulse; a writer creating delicate connections. they have called any number of places home; currently, a single yellow wall in Michigan. they have been published in Revolute Lit, Roanoke Review, and Figure 1, among others. they are the 2022 winner of FOLIO’s Editor’s Prize for Poetry, as well as the Bea Gonzalez Prize for Poetry. they are a poetry reader for Capsule Stories. their portfolio can be found at twinbrights.carrd.co