His gift to me from Paris <br />was a Webster’s International <br />Collegiate Dictionary from1945. <br /> <br />He’s thirty or thereabouts, <br />though his exact age matters <br />less than the words different <br /> <br />generational cohorts. <br />Our mouths are expatriate <br />as we argue denotation <br /> <br />and connotations, our respective <br />bedside dictionaries the accent <br />marks of fore-play, after-play, <br /> <br />even mid-play: one or the other <br />has cried out something requiring <br />verification though “correct <br /> <br />pronunciation” must be a flexible <br />term. The centered-period <br />quickens him towards his future <br /> <br />even as he delivers me the past. <br />New words appearing that year: <br />blitzkrieg, estrogen, air condition, <br /> <br />montage, and they come bound <br />in a promise that what was new <br />becomes what we rely on <br /> <br />to piece together syllabic lives. <br />In the clarity of Sartre’s three <br />o’clock hour, accused of being <br /> <br />too early or late, we proclaim <br />a new language: colloquial, <br />patois, our feux d’artifice. <br /> <br />French: fireworks; display of wit.<br /><br />Laura McCullough<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-guide-to-pronunciation/
