Word For/ Word: A Journal of new writing

Rebecca Farivar


It's morning
in Europe
and I'm dead.
Bury me
facing east
ready to
leap. I move
so I don't
have to think.

Rune Stones

I'm getting a tattoo of runes
on the inside of my arm.

It will read:
This is Rebecca's arm.

It will work, too:
Eventually the Danes

found that ancient woman
murdered in the bog.

Inaudible Morning

Clouds now hold what matters.
It is the end of rain.

I carry an umbrella. Men look
at me and say, machines now

make the clouds, and they
are dark and gathered.

New emotions begin today.
Strange, it sounds the same.

The Worst

When I focus I can feel--
honestly feel--what it's like
to burn alive. No one wants
to hear about it. I imagine
at a certain point you must
pass out. But before that
you think this is the worst case.
Everyone keeps telling me
to see a therapist. They just don't
want to talk. There are so many
ways you could burn. Most likely
in a car wreck. That's why I feel
it most when driving, and then
I need to breath, calm down,
think of peaceful things
like noodles.