In a voice made almostentirely of breath, she asksme, Tell me? My tonguetouches folds at the tipof my palate, “o” dragsair from my throat.
If she were in my mouth,she could say, Say a vowel,to feel the arrangements Iwas making, spoken in orderfrom front to back––bills,penalties, documents, drives,cash, lockout, nothing in ink.
This seems somehow a deepertelling, disguised in an assemblyof acoustics and sound, divinedfrom me in an alternate tongue.No is tactile, forceful, bold ina way that yes is anything else. [End Page 38]
David Ricchiute lives in Indiana. Fiction and poetry appears or is forthcoming in NOON, The Quarterly, North Atlantic Review, Interim, First Intensity, Red Rock Review, and Tipton Poetry Journal, among others.