Logically
by hurricanejessica
When finally he gave me words
I didn’t know what to do with them.
Should I hear each one as a tiny
perfect
ringing bell?
Should I study their contour,
the curve of his g’s,
the delicate spacing,
and spiraling question marks?
I wasn’t sure if I should read them
or fill a glass with them
and drink.
Should I rub them against my skin,
feel their newness,
their raw ambition?
Or dance across their surface
like a fly:
touching,
then not,
then resting weightless
always about to move?
First I held them upside down to note their fluidity.
Would they spill and pool around my reason?
Then, I handed them to a translator,
a dead language specialist.
Were there any hidden clues to decipher?
After that, I touched them
to the tip of my tongue
to see if they had a taste.
I pressed my nose the screen.
I tried to peer around every O
and through every Y.
It turns out they were just words,
Just words.
But why then, after consuming them,
could I soar around the room,
the taste of metal in my mouth?
