There are no first words<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Only words
that have forgotten
how many mouths
they have already survived<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The dictionary pretends
each word has
an origin<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I don\u2019t believe it<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I have watched language
behave more like water
than history;<\/p>\n\n\n\n
it remembers its direction
without remembering
its source<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Perhaps that is why
cities are impossible
to own<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You inherit
the way someone whistles
for the bus<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You inherit
the pause
before crossing a road<\/p>\n\n\n\n
You inherit
the invisible geometry
that teaches strangers
how not to collide<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Long before
you understand a sentence,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
your body
has already become fluent<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The feet know<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The shoulders know<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The hand reaching
to hold a train door
for someone
you will never see again knows<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Grammar comes later<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I used to think
a language
was made of nouns<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Table<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Window<\/p>\n\n\n\n
River<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Mother<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But nouns
are poor historians<\/p>\n\n\n\n
They isolate
what has never existed
alone<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There has never been
a river<\/p>\n\n\n\n
without the mouths
that named it<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Never a city<\/p>\n\n\n\n
without the countless
mispronunciations
that slowly became
its accent<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Never a self
without the strangers
quietly editing
its edges<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Even my handwriting<\/p>\n\n\n\n
contains people
I have forgotten<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Teachers<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Cashiers<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The friend
whose grocery list
I copied once
without thinking<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The poet
whose cadence
hid itself
inside my pulse
years before
I knew her name<\/p>\n\n\n\n
This is how inheritance works<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not by blood<\/p>\n\n\n\n
By repetition<\/p>\n\n\n\n
A phrase
passes between us
often enough<\/p>\n\n\n\n
and one day<\/p>\n\n\n\n
it no longer belongs
to anyone<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Perhaps this is
what literature
has been trying
to imitate all along<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not permanence,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
but circulation<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Not authorship,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
but weather<\/p>\n\n\n\n
To write<\/p>\n\n\n\n
is merely<\/p>\n\n\n\n
to become<\/p>\n\n\n\n
another brief climate<\/p>\n\n\n\n
through which
language passes,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
changing shape,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
remaining itself<\/p>\n\n\n\n
So no, there are no first words<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Only the impossible tenderness<\/p>\n\n\n\n
of believing,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
for one miraculous instant,<\/p>\n\n\n\n
that the mouth<\/p>\n\n\n\n
they happened to choose<\/p>\n\n\n\n
was yours<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
A Poem by Radikha Freya Anjani There are no first words Only wordsthat have forgottenhow many mouthsthey have already survived The dictionary pretendseach word hasan origin I don\u2019t believe it I have watched languagebehave more like waterthan history; it remembers its directionwithout rememberingits source Perhaps that is whycities are impossibleto own You inheritthe way someone […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3157,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-1255","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n