by Marlys West

If the world is but a place of language, at last
I know wherefore I talk too much.
To make a place for myself, to create out of every ten
sentences a bed to lie in, a chair for sitting;
and of the next ten sentences, even little glitches like
glitches like like,
for example, strong proof the machine is not
running down to dead.
There is a sputtering to life,
a stuttering, thus I speak in the rambling monologues reserved
for small children who know their mother is not paying
attention and must walk through her tiny ruffle
of neglect, that familiar shiver of invisibility.
The child talks loud and long about nothing;
merely the act of throat humming,
the fact of air passing over vocal chords
that makes the difference.
It is the opposite of quiet which equals dead,
always hard to live with.  Mama, watch me wink, Mama,
can you shut one eye?
Mothers go on faith that their children are human.
We have no choice, though a baby is incomprehensible
as such.
Just so, I believe the white gorilla
would not be understood by anyone other than
her trainer
busy interpreting every blink and finger twitch
Coco want a kitty?  Coco hungry for lunch?
into actual communication.
I tell you we all do it, make meaning when meaning
isn’t there,
the monkey actually dreaming of the jungle,
the children asking for some little proof
of existence, the mother dreaming
of something equally rare,
her overburdened thought processes thick as smoke
and the children talking as if they know
that now, now, now their mother will pay attention
though she has no choice, really
just a slight inclination to do so.

*Photo courtesy joanna8555.