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The Promise of a Word

2009 February 1
by J. Scott Mosel

I could not be happier. After yearslima-corn-ii
putting me off, they invited me

into a word. They said
I might not be happy

with the choice, for it sticks:
there is no going back.

As I write this, I still do not know
its name, but I need to write-

after all, we forget invitations
and go places we are not welcome:

dead fingers, held in place
with the same wires hidden inside

to make a fake tree look real
but cold: there is no disguise

for death, and frigid fingers hold
nothing–no secrets, nothing–

and this is the easy part:
the dead know where the rain

is born, they know the last
word breathes life into the first–

but all I have is the promise
of a word that is still not here

and may never arrive
in time–in fact, I hope it stays

right there in hell.

 

 

2 Responses leave one →
  1. Jeff permalink
    February 6, 2009

    I want to know who “they” were who invited you. Several lines jumped off the screen and grabbed me by the throat . . . “after all we forget invitations and go places we are not welcome” and “the dead know where the rain is born”.

  2. February 6, 2009

    I might tell you all about “they,” but first we must pass across the sacred river that flows through the basement of the Brickskeller. Then, it will not be a matter of telling you; I will have to tell you. Please understand that waterboarding may be involved.

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