Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Elizabeth Langemak
This Song Is Made of Ideas
Holding your fingers, I make them a song
not of words, but ideas. You are against
this unnaming, but nothing speaks
better: rough scrub on my palm, turns
through my hair, arches of flight
down my back and this, your third finger,
now naked, still wearing its ring
of light shadow against your summer-
tanned skin. Where are the words
for this? There are none. We have been
our own unnaming, we have done it
like this: the idea speaks first (Shall we go on
inside) and the words not at all,
but with their hard grip and coax
hold it hot to the bed by slim wrists,
tickle its ears with bare breath.
Surely, this you believe in: that was
the bed where all lexis failed me,
it was the song written before we
had language. And after? Real speech
112 ◆ Crab Orchard Review