A Glossary Written With Both Hands Tied to the Wind by Asha Federico
I learned sobremesa in Chile. Let me try something reckless:
Yes, it means over the table, I’ll rename the body lanterneel,
but what it really means is stay, rename silence midswip,
is don’t leave yet, rename the act of reaching for
is the hour after eating comprehension
when the plates cool into themselves glimmerwrought unsteady yes.
and no one feels ashamed You feel it, don’t you? The slight tearing
of lingering. along the seam where certainty lives?
The way steam hesitates How desperately your mind wants to be a
before choosing sky. cartographer,
There was a word for it there, to map the territory of a sound
and because there was a word, that refuses citizenship.
the moment grew a body wide enough to You pretend
hold us. that lightning means lightning
because it didn’t audition to be pear,
that river isn’t secretly jealous
Back home, we rose the instant forks of javelin.
quieted,
as if the table were embarrassed But listen.
to carry anything but dishes, Some nights the world arrives first.
as if stillness were the kind of bruise I try to say streetlight
we shouldn’t show. and the lamp sputters in amusement,
Only then did I understand casting its amber waver across the asphalt
how naming, slight as a breeze, as if to show me how clumsy my label is.
shifts the weather inside you So I try again: street, stree, strrr—
until you mistake a shiver for a season— but the glow keeps shaking its head,
and I felt, absurdly, insisting on a syntax of filament
that the next season depended I can feel on my skin
on whatever I called it. long before I can pronounce it.
None of these voices wait for me.
So I tried to reply— They speak among themselves,
say something simple, like here or now— a parliament of breath and resonance
but the moment I spoke, the words leaned trading messages I can only half-inherit.
back, I lean into them anyway,
as if waiting for me to remember let my ribs take notes:
that I was only borrowing them. a glossary written
That each one arrived feral, with both hands tied to the wind.
a small wild animal curled on the porch,
and I—impulsive, lonely— Once I told a friend
held open the door. the moon was composed entirely of krellin,
which is gibberish at best.
She nodded, thoughtful,
as though krellin meant
rock or grief or milk or
I’m afraid.
Later she used it herself
to describe a certain ache in her chest.
And suddenly the word existed.
Not because it was true,
but because we’d both agreed
to hold it there.
Maybe that’s all language is:
a long corridor of humans leaning—
toward each other, toward the world,
toward the confession that we have no idea
what anything means
until we decide to.
It unravels, yes, but only because it is alive enough to move.
It breaks, yes, but only in the way branches
break into blossoms.
And if none of this has answered your question,
good. Let the uncertainty stand.
Let it totter there in the open.
After all, the word answer
was only ever a suggestion.
Asha Federico is a first-year English student at the University of California, Berkeley.
She was born with severe hearing loss in both ears, a perspective that shapes how
she moves through the world and listens closely to language, texture, and meaning.
Her writing has appeared with Hands & Voices and Optimist International. She is also
the founder and CEO of Superhear-os, a business that designs and handcrafts hearing
aid and cochlear implant charms. Outside of school, she enjoys skiing, beading, playing
piano, and spending time with words, both on and off the page.
