The Word

The Word Doug Olmstead

What is the word?!

I want to scoop out my brain with a serrated-tipped grapefruit spoon: the concave mirror clenches the zesty citrus nodules, near-bursting; but with a thin membrane, luminous with sheen holding the taste back, I stumble in my attempt to harvest from the rind, squirting myself in the eye. the flavor is near…

a slap in the face; you feel, not mal-intent, but a zeal for living tweaking behind your ears with a sour bustling bristle.

I want to shower my brain with sugar for taste and then blanket my brain with my tongue; but a self-deception obfuscates my inner workings:

perhaps I used salt instead for only a foul bitterness quakes— What is that word??

What is that word…?

It will come to me at 3 AM and I will smack my mouth, talcum powder tongue,

and fall back asleep: the word, the taste, at the moment it doesn’t matter.