Another Word

It wants another word, this thing,

one more fitted than

the dull, blind giant “love” is,

whose hollow, bloated imprecision can’t sustain more meanings.

It wants another --

not an infant word to pet and coddle,

to lower into spaces other words have left;

no block letters stitched on quilts,

no dangling filigree;

not a word to mutter or command

or list alongside others like a task;

not a substitute – kindness, generosity, these nobles need no proxy;

not a word to brandish or to bait, or to enshrine,

not a thoughtless valediction, no …

no word that rolls so loosely off the tongue can say what this thing is.

It wants a notorious word,

thin as sweat on skin,

a word that’s signed in broad and vicious strokes

kinked, knotted, crossed,

a question with no answer,

an unreadable word.

It wants a word that hisses through the teeth,

or tumbles unexpected,

or only sounds when lips are pressed.

It wants a mouthful.

It wants a word that goes on wildly saying

until

it

decides

to tame itself,

and even then 

continues in the silence.