For years, I have studied
the science of speech.
I learned to split
words into phonemes,
sort sounds
into boxes:
fricative,
nasal
stop.
Taking a word apart
makes it become strange.
The meaning peels back,
comes unstuck
from sound.
Take ruling:
a rolling, liquid word.
It lacks the plosive staccato of
liberty,
the hiss and spit of
choice.
Ruling.
The word flows gently, unobstructed
by palate or lip or tongue.
I want the word to sound
like what it is.
Let it contain the ruler’s hard edge,
retribution’s sharp teeth,
the voice constricted, then
expelled by force.
I want to find a new language.
I need words that will shape
my breath into flame.
Words I can hone
Like a blade.
About the author:
Melissa Fitzpatrick lives in the Los Angeles area. Her writing has appeared in such places as Scrawl Place, Five South, Milk Candy Review, MoonPark Review, Flash Fiction Online, Atlas + Alice, HAD, Lunch Ticket, and Flash Fiction Magazine. Find more of her work at melissa-fitzpatrick.com. She can be found on Bluesky at @melissafitz.bsky.social.
Part of We Could Almost Touch It, a special feature exploring women’s rights and perspectives since the 2016 election.
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