Laying claim to language by Carolyn Srygley-Moore

someone said it (not i) it is all about losses (i just glimpsed the word in a poem) it is not her word though it is not mine. one i read the word snowman in a poem then the word kerosene: i put them together like lemon & tea & was attacked for it. it is my word, snowman, said Lisa. it is my word, kerosene.
..

…………………………………………it’s like that. working from the underground of the inarticulate, working for the snuffed birthdays of Pompeii. celebrating fire with fire, even as the fire came down! i sat at a table in a Chinese Restaurant, Irvine, California, able to hear the cabbage speak.
 ..
……………………..what? you’ve never been there, that place, suffused in plastic wrap, wax paper. lain like a kid’s prom rose, yellow, between dictionary pages, where language is unclaimed like land behind my grandmother’s outhouse, or my mother’s white stone bench, from which she plants red flowers
 ..
……………………………………………………..which don’t cost much, she says
 ..
which always come back she says.
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