The Meadow 27 When We Broke Up Melanie Perish for her When my words were whimsy our days were wings and touch. Your hands were slow, my mouth on your mouth found tongues had a language where vowels shaped breath and sighs were better than punctuation. Both of us thought we spoke and listened. Neither of us imagined our lives were written with different alphabets. My dictionary included contradictions to your father; and the photo that proved me right. Your lexicon had too many synonyms for silence or omission. Both of us know the range of a father’s voice. Do not remember me as a fragment. Do not remember me as the thorn in your family’s pride. The patriarchs are mesmerizing as the wrinkled air above the road with its hot, thin shimmer—but this signals thirst. Remember me as the woman committed to voice. Remember me as the heart that breaks and breaks open.
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