The Loaned Word

She said it twice into the plastic receiver,

a sound like a bolt sliding home in a lock.

I watched the fog of my breath on the glass

turn the streetlights into blurry, wet halos.

I looked it up later in the dark of the kitchen.

The definition is a map with no roads,

a name for the hole where a feeling should be.

I try to say it, but my tongue is too thick,

closing a door I can't see.