by Fran Fernández Arce
A morphological happenstance turned
into a new sense. She slips
her tongues, slits their throats, slinks away
and beyond the edges
of this page. Pure orthographic carelessness.
And she blames you, by the way. Or at least
your inability to follow her trains of thought,
such thorn-filled trails, these tranquil
misdirections of words. She brandishes a
sword of absolute miscommunication.
Not out of malice, of course.
Or maybe a tiny bit of malice.
Like a tipsy blip
in the chemistry of her transplanted, multiplied,
doubled-up brains. She wants you to know,
knock twice on her chest, unknot these tangled
pieces of text; it is all a sample of semantic
selfishness, of excluding
from the rest.