they gave me the trophy in twenty-nineteen
for spelling out words from the greek,
i memorized roots that i'd never have seen
and etymologies few people speak.
syzygy, schadenfreude, tintinnabulation,
i rattled them off on the stage,
applauded by teachers and guests of the nation
as the smartest young boy of his age.
fourteen-letter labels for botanical moss,
and adjectives meant for the sky,
i knew every syllable written for loss,
yet froze when you told me goodbye.
the dictionary gave me a million designs
to describe every stone in the earth,
but when i sat down to compose you three lines,
not a single one told me your worth.
we master the Latin to win on the screen
and conquer the podium stand,
while the four-letter words that we actually mean
remain things we don't understand.