* * * * *

We're sorry to Sarah weird mad poet for pushing her, and Steph (though we're not particularly sorry towards him) back a day; and to you, the reader, for skipping-thursday. Probably happen again though. We're also sorry we didn't stay longer with Darren and Tom and all the rest at the bar; but we didn't want to miss the train. And we fell in love with the train today (expect train stories, many). Mostly we are happy. Lots of good things on television Ed.

* * * * *

Mixed Mute
by Sarah Glen

You said you remembered bringing me a flower. In an orange and white plastic single-serving yogurt container (only one would fit). Bright pink rose bush roses. The ones that grow behind those tall wooden fences just around the corner from your dirty apartment. The ones that you have to steal in the morning when the petals are still covered with sticky dew because if he only knew he'd be mad and you wouldn't make it to class.

I remember your hands mostly. Scratched brown shaking when you handed that container to me. How you still had a piece of wet brown paper stuck to the knuckle of your thumb (the kind of paper schools jails hospitals newsrooms keep in tight large rolls in the back room counter under the sink behind the cupboards). How when you pressed the tilted container towards me I could see the tips of your fingers. Hard white a groove running along the top where the strings fit. How when you said 'here' you didn't pronounce your 'h' and I reached up to my ear.

I decided then to lend you all my 'h's'.

Now I sit on a bed that isn't mine in a place where I wear a turtleneck in June and people grind their letters spiting out the angled remains through the sharp corners of their mouths (I don't give mine away as easily now).

When you pushed the receiver up to the speaker and we were both quiet I couldn't even hear your breath. I closed my lips pale shoulders wrapped in your green and black comforter drinking strained ginger tea. There wasn't any light then only from the blue green screen glow.

You told me to listen.

It was the same although you were the one lending your letters this time: speaking rhythms.

Like at first when we sat on velvet couches in a trailer filled gray with pot and cigarette smoke you played slowly not looking at me. Then sitting cross-legged on your floor mixing voices on a scratchy four track. Or in a tiny room with records pinned to the ceiling where I didn't look and was the one to play. Again to a group of strangers under a tent making us late getting my car towed.

Your sounds are wide slide me forward and my words aren't recognizable anymore. Singing in languages made of these beats in a language I can't speak (can understand when you do) humming on walks for coffee candy.

It's not just 'h's' anymore. I want to switch all my letters for this pulse: learn your language whisper in vibrations stroke these sentences.

Make our words move.


Sarah Glen held a small thought, dug it, and, now changed-kicked it on.



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