Anna Navarro
Think of the word
the one that smothers your tongue
on blistering days in July,
is cool and sweet about it,
lazes on your slack pink muscle,
knows it belongs there.
Think of the word
and bite down on it,
crush the figure of it like finger bones,
force a grimace onto it
until it’s flattened.
Pinch its tail, unravel
it across your gums,
floss out your yellow tooth gunk
with its slender blackness.
Slide it through eyelets,
tie a corset, running shoe,
glossy wound,
tie it around your neck,
your wrist, hold up some saggy pants.
When it’s fraying at the edges, pull the threads,
not meticulous, not calculating—
. no time for nuance.
Rip the stitches out: it’s crude surgery.
Make a wig, a doormat,
smear your filthy, heavy feet on it.
Stamp holes in it,
wear it as a dress, bra, diaper.
When the compliments go hush,
hang it in the closet to collect must, moths.
Then, when you are sure it is dead,
speak it.
Anna Navarro is a young writer based in Calgary, Alberta. She is a student at the University of Calgary, an avid reader, and a lover of all expressions of art. When she’s not in class, she can be found playing piano, running, or writing poetry (but not all three at once). Her aspiration is to live near the ocean with one black cat, despite her allergy to felines.
