Sometimes, in the middle of a
conversation, someone will wedge
a g where it doesn’t belong—
like planting a blade of grass
in the wrong crack of pavement.
Stronger becomes strong-ger, longer
becomes long-er-er. And I pause,
hold it like a stone in my mouth.
Do they not feel it? The syntax
pinching itself uncomfortable, the
extra syllable a stumbling toe
on language\'s clean hardwood floor?
I wonder if they think it’s clever—
a secret handshake only they know,
but every word said this way
feels like a snag, a bruise.
I don’t correct them anymore;
my silence is a softer place
than the sharp edge of grammar,
though every added g still grates.