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Inarticularity
Inarticularity
The cat’s got my tongue
I gave it to her
It was giving me gip
Didn’t need it no more
Wrenched it plain out
With an oven glove and skewer
The hollow feels warm
Like some exotic liqueur
I’m feeling so peaceful,
A skinny–girl Buddha
The thoughts have closed down
Each breath is a prayer
Inarticularity 2
Words had failed me for too long. When they did come out they
were frayed and worn, run down and faded. I met a woman in a park
once, and she told me that this was the 2nd day in 6 years that
she’d spoken. She said it was okay at first, got harder in the
middle — then people just forgot about her, which was what she
wanted, I guess. She was a broken woman, trying to mind her
tongue, and instead she got to hold it for a while. She still
looked a little crazy to me, but what did I know, shiksa from the
suburbs that I am.
And down the line a little, now I get it. And even though the
squeaking wheel gets all the grease, it doesn’t matter — like I
need more grease. So I let all of them fly, and off they landed,
to cause earth tremors in Guatemala.
In the beginning, my rib cage strained with the weight of all the
things unsaid, but soon, and amazingly, speaking stopped being
something I didn’t do and silence became something I did. I could
hear the softness of my internal hum and that was enough. Maybe
I’ll return to words, like the lady in the park. But maybe I’ll
learn a new language and I’ll live as free as my tongue.
Lisa D'Onofrio
Poet's comment: Two poems inspired by Bronwen's piece, Broken. The first is more traditional, a black look at being silenced, with the narrator paradoxically taking control by giving up with communication. The second is an extension of the theme, using a similiar style to Basketcases 1 and 2. Bronwen's piece made me think about 'scratching' i.e. scratching the surface, which led to records and being recorded, which led to voice.