"There Is No Word"
Tony Hoagland

There isn’t a word for walking out of the grocery store
with a gallon jug of milk in a plastic sack
that should have been bagged in double layers

—so that before you are even out the door
you feel the weight of the jug dragging
the bag down, stretching the thin

plastic handles longer and longer
and you know it’s only a matter of time until
bottom suddenly splits.

There is no single, unimpeachable word
for that vague sensation of something
moving away from you

as it exceeds its elastic capacity 
—which is too bad, because that is the word
I would like to use to describe standing on the street

chatting with an old friend
as the awareness grows in me that he is
no longer a friend, but only an acquaintance,

a person with whom I never made the effort—
until this moment, when as we say goodbye
I think we share a feeling of relief, 

a recognition that we have reached
the end of a pretense, 
though to tell the truth

what I already am thinking about
is my gratitude for language—
how it will stretch just so much and no farther;

how there are some holes it will not cover up;
how it will move, if not inside, then
around the circumference of almost anything—

how, over the years, it has given me
back all the hours and days, all the
plodding love and faith, all the

misunderstandings and secrets
I have willingly poured into it.

--

i have been thinking this: if language has a limit then i am giving up. all i want is for certain words to spill out of your stubborn mouth, for its letters to light us a path to safety & knowledge of what is right, but you refuse to open your lips, i can hear the words tumbling around inside as you shake your head, 'i don't know', all the time, 'i don't know'. perhaps it is futile, trying to talk about this. perhaps something else is birthing in the absence of our verbal exchanges. a growing, pregnant realization that hasn't quite popped -- that there is really nothing left to save, thus, nothing worth talking about. will i one day thank language for failing me? maybe. it is because of its limitations that i cannot do certain things i would be fully capable of did emotions not have to use language as its conveyor belt. you know the feeling of being hurt but at the same time wanting to accept the pain in order to save something you cherish so dearly is a powerful force. if it gained sentience on its own and assumed a physical form it would destroy so many things. but the fact that language must be utilised for it to be released, and given language's limitations, it remains thrashing about in the chest, in the heart, and you live with it. but i suppose eventually, as well, you come to control it. and its fists on your ribs, its kicks against your gut get weaker, or you get stronger, and you feel less like a failure. 

i hope one day i will thank language for its limitations