By Ruth Daigon

She holds the oldest word she knows
cupped in her hand
smooth as stone
warmed by the sun,
rubs it gently but it
won't release its secret

Last night it kissed her
on the lips, kept her
company a while
as she fed it, held it
up to the light
before letting go

Today she moves
from room to room
going nowhere

Fragment by fragment
she gathers thin
membranes of sound
and whatever knocks
she says

Come in