Ode on Dictionaries


A-bomb is how it begins, with a big bang on page
           one, a calculator of sorts whose centrifuge
begets bedouin, bamboozle, breakdance, and berserk,
           one of my mother's favorite words, hard-knock
clerk of clichés that she is, at the moment going ape
           the current rave in the fundamentalist landscape
disguised as her brain, a rococo lexicon
           of Deuteronomy, Job, gossip, spritz, and neo-con
ephemera all wrapped up in a pop burrito
           of movie star shenanigans, like a stray Cheeto
found in my pocket the day after I finish the bag,
           tastier than any oyster and champagne fueled fugue
gastronomique I have been pursuing in France
           for the past four months. This 82-year-old's rants
have taken their place with the dictionary I bought
           in the fourth grade, with so many gorgeous words I thought
I'd never plumb its depths. Right the first time, little girl,
           yet here I am still at it, trolling for pearls,
Japanese words vying with Bantu in a goulash
           I eat daily, sometimes gagging, sometimes with relish,
kleptomaniac in the five-and-dime of language,
           slipping words in my pockets like a non-smudge
lipstick that smears with the first kiss. I'm the demented
           lady with sixteen cats. Sure, the house stinks, but those damned
mice have skedaddled, though I kind of miss them, their cute
           little faces, the whiskers, those adorable gray suits.
No, all beasts are welcome in my menagerie, ark
           of inconsolable barks and meows, sharp-toothed shark
OED of the deep ocean, sweet compendium
           of candy bars—Butterfingers, Mounds, and M&Ms—
packed next to tripe and gizzards, the trim and tackle
           of butchers and bakers, the painter's brush and spackle,
quarks and black holes of physicists' theory. I'm building
           my own book as a mason makes a wall or a gelding
runs round the track—brick by brick, step by step, word by word,
           jonquil by gerrymander, syllabub by greensward,
swordplay by snapdragon, a never ending parade
           of clowns and funambulists in my own mouth, homemade
treasure chest of tongue and teeth, the brain's roustabout, rough
           unfurler of tents and trapezes, off-the-cuff
unruly troublemaker in the high church museum
           of the world. O mouth—boondoggle, auditorium,
viper, gulag, gumbo pot on a steamy August
           afternoon—what have you not given me? How I must
wear on you, my Samuel Johnson in a frock coat,
           lexicographer of silly thoughts, billy goat,
X-rated pornographic smut factory, scarfer
           of snacks, prissy smirker, late-night barfly;
you are the megaphone by which I bewitch the world
           or not, as the case may be. O chittering squirrel,
Ziploc sandwich bag, sound off, shut up, gather your words
           into bouquets, folios, flocks of black and flaming birds.

Barbara Hamby


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RL