I.
ebullient is one of the prettiest words —
much better than its cousins, cheerful and
bubbly, more rounded than effervescent,
trombone to fizzy French horn. I often get
hung on meanings of things: the difference
in tenor between moonsong and heartache
or almost-sadness in a trailing voice leaving
on grand adventure. I over-interpret and
dig — glean seeds off heads of grass-sprout
and keep them in my pocket like words I never
learned from ancient, unknown tongues.
II.
I have apologized more times than I know. It
is strange to think so little of it: apo- away, from,
a prepositional pushing off. -logia, from logos,
the word that was with God and the word that
was God in the very beginning when we first
found each other through groping, animal noise.
III.
Some people talk by skin and teeth and tightness
in their shoulders you can feel across a room.
Some people talk by touch — all fingers-and-toes
for participles and clumsy hand-holding for love.
Some people talk in silence, in lonely moments at
daybreak or painful moments in bathrooms or
fleeting, wordless moments of just-about-ok or
I-can’t-tell-you-now or please-please-don’t-go.
IV.
Greek has a mood for things that could happen
and things that should happen, but haven’t and
might well not. It’s useful for saying, If I were
god or Should I descend the stair or I wish
I were an acrobat or Would only that she cared.
V.
There is complexity in knowing without words,
divining feeling from blood and bones and muddled
leaves of tea: a turn of cheek, a brush of hand, a
smile borne sideways on breeze. When I was young
I tried explaining terror: a robin crushed by a toppled
logtruck in the prettiest of dreams, a loved one leaving
without a sound or farewell front-door creak. I tried
explaining care, too, the drive to give away: a portion
of me for winter nights, a portion for dwindling days,
a portion for the sabbath and things we cannot keep,
and a portion I’m still not sure about —
VI.
breathless is my favorite word — layered like
birthday cake with buttercream and custard fill
and apricot preserves. It carries short-term
sadness — momentary hurt held only as long
as a diaphragm can spasm before giving up
its ghost. It is dizzy shock and awe contained in
tabernacle walls. It is crush and carbonated panic,
when a brain deprived of air thinks Surely not
here — not this way before a body, suddenly, and
with every good reason, sharply draws in sky.
VII.
How many ways to say the same thing: I love you.
A robin stood at the head of the drive and
reminded me of you. The great Li Po, on a
bamboo horse, sang of childhood rivers,
longing, bittersweet cups of wine, and you.
It is silly: this constant falling, this ebullient animal
tumble, this dizzy, over-worded, breathless groping
to some place only named in ancient, unknown tongues.
John Belk is an associate professor of English at Southern Utah University and author of the poetry collections “The Gardens of Our Childhoods” and “The Weathering of Igneous Rockforms in High-Altitude Riparian Environments.”
This story appears in the June 2024 issue of Deseret Magazine. Learn more about how to subscribe.