by Nancy Mairs

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by Nancy Mairs
     Let me tell you this once
     (I will not be able to say it again):
     I have lost the meaning of words.
     Heavy, they ripped away from the sounds,
     fell into cracked ground. For weeks
     I scratched but what I dug up was
     bicycle spokes, black melon rinds,
     a smashed doll face——it was not meaning.
     I don't know what I am saying.
     I exaggerate. Not everything is gone.
     I still know perfectly what sugar means,
     and pine needle. Laughter is more
     of a problem. And yellow often slides,
     a plate of butter in the sun.
     The meaning of flower has gone entirely;
     so has the meaning of love. Now it is safe
     to say: I love you. Now it is true.