My Pronoun

Diane Raptosh

I want to found a new pronoun that bridges the gap between self and bromeliad, lichen and ire ant, bedlam and boredom. I’m going to breed a new pronoun poised to make power wake afraid—to endstop its its and free throws. Undo its home brews. Each now, I plan to see each thou as they are, and not as cut-outs from earlier trauma. I plan to nutmeg this vowel-meringue noun with equal jots boundlessness and dissolution, lay it in leaf-litter berms. I vow to crowdfund a word that kneecaps certitude. That donkeys around in a global cleanse of identity—every cell bowed and braying Xah to new blue nonets of suns.