She is seven
and experimenting
with the power of her words
as though she just grew claws.
She places a few together
and nudges them towards me.
Did that hurt your feelings, mama?
she asks with genuine curiosity
and even though I know
she doesn’t mean it,
I can’t help but flinch.
So she runs after the words,
bursting into tears,
trying to gather them back.
I explain how words get swallowed
and land in the heart
and as I hold her in my arms,
she grows quiet,
stops crying
and then wonders out loud
why we didn’t invent
an alphabet with letters
whose edges
weren’t
so sharp.