When you need a larger alphabet

A poem about justice, sort of. Another poem about more than that.

Photo by Ross Sneddon on Unsplash

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Instead of a smart-phone, I carry a small sheaf of crossword puzzles in my purse.¹ If I’m stuck at a bus stop or standing in line and the crosswords are all complete, I’ll turn one over, set myself a “find all the smaller words in this word” challenge, and start scribbling. The first poem is based on one of those challenges, set during a bus ride in 2019 on the day of one or another egregious ruling by the Supreme Court. I can’t think why it occurred to me to publish it now.

The second poem is by way of a palate cleanser, and also by way of a reminder that you are remarkable, and your life and the way you’re living it matter more than you can probably see. It’s never the wrong time to tell you that, and just now may be an especially useful moment to say it.

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WORDS YOU CAN MAKE WITH THE LETTERS IN “JUSTICE”             2019


JUST ICE. No, sorry, we need more. JEST?
I hope not. CUTIES — more tasty, if not on point.
JETS and JUICES don’t move the bar, but look, 
here are SUE, SUIT, and CITE, along with SIT
(as judges do), TIES for the attorneys to wear,
and TICS, the tells of twitchy defendants.
“How about JESUIT?” says a friendly stranger
reading over my shoulder, and I arch my brows
and scratch it down, a wry remembered tribute 
to black-robes I have known.  JUTE, JUTS,
SECT — I stare and stare some more,
combining consonants, shuffling syllables,
coaxing out plurals, pushing back the truth
that I do not have enough letters — these seven
cannot spell TRUTH, can barely make a start
on COURAGE and AMENDS, let alone
MERCY. Those need a larger alphabet;
the more I shift this handful, the more
I spell with them, the less they mean.

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YOUR LIFE                                                                                 2025


That deep blue thread, woven just here and there
among the browns and leafish greens. The row
of small black tiles in a mosaic that define
the story it is telling. A brush-stroke of a cloud,
not the horizon but showing where the painter
thinks it lies, not the sky but showing
where the sky and bright horizon meet.

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1. Leafs from a page-a-day calendar, as close as I get to subscribing to the New York Times.