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2023 Harold Taylor Prize

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Assess

by Laurel Wilkinson

 

“The wait from pain to say. To not to. Say.” - Theresa Hak Kyung Cha To say to say. What to say. Say what is in the hhhhhaaaaatttcchhh of my throat. Say what I cannot say. Say Roro. Say l-a-u-r-e-l. Rou Rou. Say llll-orrr-uuuhhhllll. Ro ra re ro. No se. Say assuage assay allay say see si say. Say, so often do we say, what do we say. I say I am sane but somehow have less to say. Save the same. Saaaaaaay. Stay, say insane, in stain. Stain ensnares pain. So to say, pay or pain. She allows herself caught in their threading, anonymously in their thick motion in the weight of their utterance. When you say /s/ or /z/, your tongue tip should touch the roof of your mouth. SSSSSSSS. Bite the sides of your tongue. Tongue tongue bit the sides, slice a slight slip to prevent lisp. Lisping the tip of a tippy tip toe slipping off the slippery slope of a snowman’s slow slope. Lengthen your mouth, like a lengthened smile, sides wide, pinch the sides of the flesh, the muscle, tamp down on the slipped stitch. Beginning wherever you wish, tell even us. She spoke mizu, not miss you, or Miss, you, no. Not misuse or misissue or my issue or mist. She did not mean to miss. Sa shi su se so. She said MI ZU. Tongue parched, she said, I felt so guilty, she kept saying, I didn’t know. Mizu. She wanted. To say what. She wanted to say what she wanted. No. W a t e r. Water, water, water, what her, water, what her, wait her, waiter, white hair. Waiting for white hair, wit here, w a t e r. When the amplification stops there might be an echo. Missing each sewn strewn sonic stuffing each pocket full of drops we never pour into glass.

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