be the ball
Formidable, fortuitous, forceps. There weren’t nearly enough f-words. The -f- is sneaky, makes you do obscene things with your lips.
Fuzzy.
Flaming.
Fandango. She could dance if she wanted, wind her body into the shape of an -f- then a g, an h, an entire choreography miming letters into sentences. “Be what you speak:” an instruction. “You become what you say:” a warning. It was never enough to write them.
I will climb into the juice of this word, she thought, a pencil dangling like a spent cigarette from her mouth. I’ll drive it from the inside.
She would compose sentences from forearms, couplets out of phalanges; she would run with entire paragraphs hidden in her femurs. She would channel epics through the pores of her forehead. She would be epic, if only she could write it all inside. Be the pen!
Be the ball!
Eyes on prize. Shoot from hip. Are what eat. Become what say. Bloom where grow. Amen.
