there is great comfort taken in a 1965 illustrated dictionary; an undeniable quaintness and attraction to the idea that a book of words used to matter. i want to be reading it, consulting it with my hair in waves and red lipstick on, bending over a desk in heels.
it called to me from the thrift bookshelf, and i knew it had to live with me the moment i looked inside and found the "new words" section:
AFL-CIO
blast-off
carcinogen
DNA
electron microscope
freeway
giveaway show
hard sell
integrate
kabuki
leftist
manpower
NATO
orbit
party line
racism
sit-in
televise
underbelly
VIP
woofer
Xerox
yukon
zero hour
today, that is my poem. that list is inherently mine, and i can't escape the feeling that all of these words are essential to my well-being tonight.
oh, sweet, sweet dictionary. the smell of your pages lights me up from the inside out, and i long to have owned you first. although, to think upon it, i am drawn to the idea of who held you before me. who treated you with respect, or who threw you across the room in frustration when you didn't reveal what was so important to discover.
my hands holding you--somewhere in time another pair underneath mine--both of us grateful to have you, to be incapable of ignoring the simple glory of sunset orangey cover and tissue-thin pages.
oh, the beauty of you, dictionary. oh, the love of words that beats my heart strong, despite its longtime use.
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