My toddling daughter spoke in sentences
before words – the intonations
and incantations carrying her meaning.
I search for words, palabras, in the air –
But they fly by like paper airplanes
and at best, nosedive into my mouth.
My morpheme relationship was always doomed.
How could sounds, letters paint
damp dewdrops, tastes of coriander skies?
We are long-time frenemies,
language and I —inseparable one minute,
irate and red-faced the next.
Blackeyed Susans sound peppery.
Fresh-cut watermelon smells like flattery,
and yesterday’s thunderclap looked at me with awe.