We meet in the morning // and the first thing you say is // back in the 16th and 17th centuries // “morning” used to refer to the whole day. // We are unusual people // we find honour in language history // sanctity in semantics // and tend to exclaim about etymology // and today? // Today will be perfect. // Today, I want to swim in your sentences // and get drunk on your diction. // Carry me around in your grammatical grab bags // and write me into your // experimental fiction. // I want nothing more // than to be the semi-colon in your sentences // because we always have more to say to each other // don’t we? // You drop slightly archaic phrases like hearkens back // and hereupon // into your modern monologues // and I feel like a time traveller // on an alliteration adventure. // At the café, we talk about numeral classifiers // how we use stalk of to count things that are long and lean and living // like stalks of celery // or stalks of wheat // or the stalks of sugarcane // crystallized in our coffee //and how we use pack of // for rectangular storehouses // that fit in pockets. // You use your pack of matches // to light one item from your pack of cigarettes. // You blow smoke rings // and tell me about how the “circ” in English words referring to “aroundness,” like circumflex, circuit, and circa, comes from Latin circulus. // Talk me in circles; casually use words like erstwhile, esoteric, and evocative // to win any argument we might have. // I would be honoured to lose to you. // May our understanding of the Greek roots of our language grow up big and tall // so we can climb beautiful syntax trees // and then, in the boughs // sit and talk about the twenty definitions of the word climb. // Let’s talk about metaphorical language on the long walk home // long as a measure of distance. // We’ll talk about the long nights we had before we found each other // long as a measure of time. // We’ll talk about phonetic symbolism as the sky darkens and the // streetlights // let light // fall on the ground. // Tell me how most words in our language that start with “g-l-” // like gloss, gleam, glisten, and glow // have something to do with light // as the rain starts to fall // and the raindrops glimmer and glitter // in the light of those streetlights. // You told me once // how miscommunications based on language limitations cause plane crashes every day // and I just want you to know // I don’t want any disasters to happen between us. // Let’s make sense of the world together. // Let’s stay on top of our expressions // stay on the same wavelength // in the same grapevine // and keep our wires uncrossed. // Let’s create our own legend of language, and // figuratively // stick together on this // the most perfect of days // and all the days after it.
J. Blake McBride (she/her) is a queer, disabled multi-award-winning writer living on the West Coast of Canada. Her first book, Strange Grief, is forthcoming in Spring 2027. She has appeared in over 100 international performances, been welcomed as an artist-in-residence and ensemble member of many beautiful collectives, and mentors writing students across North America. Her work focuses on queer life, community, and transformation. Her work has appeared on CBC Radio and is forthcoming in several publications.
