by Luiza Flynn-Goodlett
We gum Lincoln Logs, drool on bibs,
but syllables, spooned with mashed
bananas, spark neurons. The moon’s
bade goodnight, Wendy takes flight.
Now, paragraph jockeys, keyboard
clackers ready with a quip, we hardly
recall the terror of cursive, when we
didn’t intuit what thread binds cyanide
to an evening sky. So how to conjure
the world before it was named? We’ll
come closest bumping headboards.
As throats shudder alongside thighs,
there’s no urge to transmute the golden
honey to word’s bile. It’s what we grope
back to—when cradled by sensation, not
yet compelled to account for ourselves.
[Luiza Flynn-Goodlett is the author of the chapbooks Unseasonable Weather (dancing girl press, 2018) and Congress of Mud (Finishing Line Press, 2015). Her work can be found in Third Coast, Granta, Quarterly West, DIAGRAM, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. She serves as editor-in-chief of Foglifter and lives in sunny Oakland, California. http://luizaflynngoodlett.com]