Other Words

Published in the 2018 edition of Loyola University Maryland’s literary magazine, Corridors

The love letter that came in the mail today came from myself, but it was not I who wrote it. It was your hand, dear, that so thoughtfully composed the string of darling confessions, pen drifting then lifting in feverish tempos of love and admiration. But all the same it was my flesh-side, too, that glided across the lined page faster than I could get the words down. Bahktin says that our everyday speech is full of the words of other people; that we merge our voices with others the same way cars float from shoulder to lane in chorused union, running parallel to one another into the same sunset horizon of day’s ends. In other words, we use others’ words. It is as much my tongue as yours that pushes against the roof of your mouth to utter the word “love”; yours is the same meaty pink tissue that pushes against the back of my two front teeth to whisper a “thank you.” I have traced every vowelved curve you have written a thousand times before, have mastered the mindless comma-ed flick that separates my name from the rest of your penned declarations. There is no warmth I have not already crossed myself, no fear I have not dotted, no anger I have not erased if only to feel again more legibly. We chew on the same sounds, molar down our consonants until their crunch is stuck between our yellowed teeth. We pick them out with precision, out of each other. We use the other words of others, worried that we won’t get it right on our own. (In other words, hold my hand. In other words, baby, kiss me.) And then we fold it, envelop it, mail it, and hope for the best.