Poetry from The Literary Review
Language
SAMANTHA HUNT
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Either we are both liars or we are not. Certainly I have lied about many small things. It is not bread, pure pain, bread, pain, pain, pain that I live on. And the business of renting a house in a different state than his—my body's physical location — is a small lie to the rest of me.
If this were the Great Plains I would be able to ask him and he would answer either, stay here forever or go away now and I would do what he told me to. But here in the ocean, I wrap my legs around his waist, leaving room for the Lord. Look at the math: the glue in my head when he is near + some ear drum damage + his voice so low it goes places alone + this room for the Lord where language is always in translation = I Far Thou. Imagine every person had his own language. They do. I am far from thou. I am far, though. I fear thou. I am for thou. All of the above answers are correct.
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