Sarah Clayville
Everyone’s unnaturally concerned with the shape of my lips
when the words are spilling out, bone by bone. The consonants hard hammers
against my teeth, the vowels small surrenders hanging under my tongue.
I’m more concerned with the shape of my body and the fact that
every other girl on the narrow wooden stage is wearing a bra or should be. I’m
flat as a dictionary, and full of just as many words.
My country of origin is the land of magazines and television telling me
in lame, one syllabic quips to be cool and hot and thin when really
the only word I want to learn to spell is N-O.