Sometime in December, I’m going to publish a 44-page free ebook of stories called Alone and Other Flash Fiction. This is one of the pieces from it.
I know a friend who speaks five languages.
She expresses herself best in English. But occasionally, she would burst into Chinese, recovering some word lost since childhood, picking it up like it was a seashell she almost stepped on.
The thing with language is it is so malleable. People living in different cities sometimes couldn’t understand each other even when they speak the same language. Accent is another thing. But languages absorb other languages, changing so much that they are virtually unrecognisable.
I’d like to think that love is like that. We live to love. Each person we speak with speaks a different language. Think of Babel. Think of that sky we’re trying to reach since we were born. We look up and never know when we’ll reach it. Perhaps even knowing it’s an impossibility, this reaching, this striving to love like it’s there becoming something we need.
Like language. Indispensable. Necessary. Essential.
For expression, for livelihood, for living.
How do you talk to someone who doesn’t speak your language? You love them. You look at them. You think that the city you’re in is a language you learned to speak. Go there.
The night is falling in this city. It is quiet, as quiet as language itself, without words.
I’m saying that love is not just a language, it is there to be here, to reach us like the night sky.
One of my poems will be published in a future issue of Olentangy Review, edited by Darryl and Melissa Price. Thank you very much, Darryl and Melissa.
I’m delighted that one of my poems has been accepted for publication in Poetry NZ Yearbook 52, coming in March 2018. Many thanks to the editor, Jack Ross.
Two of my poems have been accepted by The Tower Journal, edited by Mary Ann Sullivan. Publication is in mid-September. Thank you, Mary Ann.
New book What We Give: a novella has just been published as a free ebook at https://en.calameo.com/books/005063882e0b5bfd690e8
This is my third book of prose. It tells of a widow and her ruminations about life with her husband, her doubts and doubtfulness, his exactness and charm, and the consequences of death.
“Let us remember our loved ones, our lovers who took us again and again without fail, without success, only with love, by love.
Let’s think about his presencethe one we miss, beside us in bed, beside us in the car, in front of us at the table, beside us walking arm in arm at the park.
Let’s feel his love, gone now, but still here. Still everywhere we are.”
Sections of my poem “Silence” in the latest issue of Otoliths. Thank you very much, Mark Young.