Words With Friends

I download an app to learn

a new word each day, to keep

my mind off things.

I can purchase words by category:

The Human Body, Sexology, Expressions.

For $35.99, I can hear a digital man say anemoia

as many times as I’d like.

I can finally describe what it was

to watch a pale blue butterfly,

the size of a bread clip, cautiously scope

the perimeter of a lake for three days

before gaining the confidence to land,

only to subsequently pull

its own wings clean off.

On day seven, I unlock a reward,

a reverie—the sweet side of ache.

I hold my breath long enough

to feel the searing in my throat.

I scroll past imbrue.

I grapple with the synonymity between “footnote”

and “companion plots.”

There should be a word for

the small stretch of time

between sleep and consciousness.

There should be a better word for grief,

but grief is just grief.

The truth is I never cared much

for the notion of coming from a rib until you

told me I’d been ripped from yours.

The truth is I’m still hoping wings can grow back.

Rejuvenate, maybe.

Transcend, perhaps.