SWWIM sustains and celebrates women poets by connecting creatives across generations and by curating a living archive of contemporary poetry, while solidifying Miami as a nexus for the literary arts.

notes on pronunciation

 

Mom pronounces my name the same way Christian priests pronounce crucifix.
Dad and I pronounce home in utter alien tongues. Swallow vinegar, blister 
with rust & go mute. He detests how I pronounce yesterday. I plead deaf to 
verbs pronounced in future tense. Important to note that and is always 
pronounced but. Indian and American. Faithful and menstruating. Angry and 
loud. Freedom and mine. Pronouncing god correctly means pronouncing it 
wrong. Culture wants to be pronounced like me & is pronounced like not me,
wait no, sounds like all? with a question mark. Family isn’t always 
pronounced. should the i in family be silent? Grandfather pronounces my 
name the way mom used to—in syllables that make god (am I pronouncing 
that right?) a giddy toddler with paint-rivered fingers, smearing peach 
horizons that seep into velvet starry blue. Laughter is pronounced like the hull 
of a ship slicing through thigh-thick mist. These days dad pronounces my name 
in mountain of granite rupturing from bullet’s kiss. Truth is pronounced like 
palms hugging by a hospital bed. Earth is pronounced the way someone told 
the first bedtime story ever dreamed. In white folks’ mouths my name trips, 
an avalanche of basalt. Impotent molars split on volcanic syllables. Note: when 
descendants pronounce brown like galaxy, linger. I whistle come long & slow, 
in the space between foliage fluttering from trees. Yes, there is always a 
pronunciation for them. Ghosts know the pronunciation of hunger. Some people 
pronounce love with blood in their throats & some make it sigh in the dark. so what? Love
is pronounced however the fuck you want. On tongues labeled “used—like 
new” my name sounds like memory—carousing vagrant, slanting sideways 
towards sunlight. Hope sounds like rage & protest sounds like prayer, set to 
your neighbor’s pulse. Important to note that in my mouth my name is iron-
spined, tall, mounted on a lion & weaponed for war, but I love most the way 
my name is pronounced tomorrow: cavernous dark of temples before lamps 
are lit; ocean waltzing, bridge of boulders draped like pearls on its back.

 

Sharanya Sharma a writer and teacher from Washington, D.C. with an MFA in writing from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in AGNI Magazine, Tupelo Quarterly, The Margins and Black Warrior Review, among others. You can find more of her writing at www.sharanyawrites.com.

 

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