Lexi Pelle

 
 

Before Language, Singing

 

As far as we know Neanderthals had no language.
Some scientists believe they sang to each other
in wordless notes that could’ve meant anything.
Like, before the body, the silk slip; or before
thirst, a blue clay cup with the artist’s initials
carved on the bottom. They made sounds
crude as a first kiss, crooned warm as animal
hide just flayed. We never really know
what it is we’re saying to each other, even
with the fine stitching of sentences and
syntax’s elaborate technology. Every truth
I’ve ever loved has been profligate
imprecision. Tonight let’s peel certainty
like a fruit with a rind too bitter to eat.
I’ll use a low tremolo to say I like the place
your stubble starts to change direction
on your cheek; a simple hum to say
and not say, Right there, like that.



 

Lexi Pelle was the winner of the 2022 Jack McCarthy Book Prize. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Plume, West Branch, River Styx, Rattle, and Ninth Letter. She is the author of the poetry collection Let Go With The Lights On (Write Bloody Publishing, 2023). Find her socials at: IG @lexipellepoetry, Twitter: @lexipellepoetry, Bluesky: @lexipelle.bsky.social.