Sadder Than Tristan

Nobody has said the word Mango for days—
and it’s enough to make me weigh two silver coins in one hand,
and a glass of ether in the other.
No one either has said Azure, Mandolin, or Lagoon;
plenty of Autopsy, plenty of Botched Marriage,
or words nickel-tart like Budget, words that
bloat like Embargo, words like feathers clumped in glue,
words more vacant than the eye of a tilapia
on a fish-monger’s bed of ice;
words saccharine as Blessing, or blunted from
misuse like Genius, Patriot, or Passion.
No one has said the word Mango for ages,
let alone Dune, Rose, or Dusk;
no one has paused to simply utter Word,
like an appraiser peering into a diamond.
Already the uniforms are parading the Crutches before
the scurry of Shrapnel and Lynchings
reaches the carbines, the warehouses hording
barrels of nightmare which clutter
the cold forest of rebar and stagnant water.

Some have agreed not to notice.

But I have heard the word Earthquake, the word Carnage
a business suit sneezes when bats flap
from the pulpit in a Cathedral erected for manicures.
I haven’t heard the word Mango for ages—
simple, round, and sweet. I haven’t wept that fruition,
not yet, not for a while,
and that’s what others mean when they say the word Drought.