Practice

makes perfect, they say. Habitual
as in tradition or in the
practice of a tradition,
anyway, which is
a handing down. Say
from the Greek word for
practice, praxis, or from
Medieval Latin,
which too is praxis.
“Praxis, praxis,” said
a hundred zillion,
trillion times by a million
generational
voices—praxis, praxis,
practice: perhaps here and there
just a little slip of the tongue.
Like a gaggle of kids once
making a game of it,
like playing telephone: between
here and there, or
just between you and me—
whispers Demosthenes to
Augustine: “There’s
a pear tree in the orchard
next door to us. And ripe for
climbing.” Or
Clytemnestra to Agamemnon:
“Welcome home; so
glad to see you,
dear.” Or how we
“used to” implies the imperfect
past tense
of out of practice: Us—
now winded in the bedroom after
long eons of our last
shouting match.