Dead Language by Abigail Frankfurt

in a dream you came back and made the same mistakes you already made. 3 broken ribs and hospital bound. i played the cd that was in the back of a book i bought on the east side. we listened to it over and over and over. we prepared. what song would accompany those who mourn you. i looked up a word – new to me – beautiful in its meaning terpsichorean – but i have not had the chance to use it. 3 times i was told – use a new word three times – it will harness itself to your tongue and it is yours forever. i joined a group of linguists lead by a righteous academic who told me there were no words for “you belong.” he told me i was not welcome, if i stayed it would get unpleasant. i am used to unpleasant – my tongue twisted and tangled and rolled out of mouth like a rotted tooth. i knew you knew – in a dream or in truth – i was telling the story of our time – your fingers dipped in ink, my face covered in sweat – sitting in a used ford taurus- nineteen ninety-six – each word had a purpose – the feeling of your filthy fingers wrapped around my slippery tongue – pulling and pulling, helping me puke up what it was i meant to say – it’s so good to dream of you shoving me up against a tree – lost – the 2 of us – lost in the woods – my body opens up, my ribs scrape yours and we are sewn together – bones weaving upwards like lattice crawling over brick