The Great Unknown

How we abuse you, letter x,
stretching you further and further
beyond your sturdy
little frame,

for here you are "ks"
as in sex,
the association that makes
you titillating.
Yet you slip from our grasp
into "z"
while initiating xylophones
in the memories of children
or into "gz"
ungainly center of luxury
to which you lend a certain
elegance.

The Chinese call you "hs"
when they bother with you at all.
The French think you are pretty enough
to be seen and not heard,
while the Spanish aspirate
you to the very edge of "h."
But the ancient Greeks
who engendered you
named you "chi,"
hence your link to Christianity,
crosses, Chi-Rhos,
X-tians and X-mas.
There you have become great
slashes criss-crossing life's map
to indicate a hidden treasure.

Sometimes you are simply past tense.
Over and done with,
last vestige of former relationships.
At others, you multiply yourself
to make t-shirts cover more
and porn stars cover less,
both concealing mysteries
and revealing them.

Long-suffering little
letter x, you steadfastly continue
to mark the spot
while you yourself remain
unknown,
eternally unsolved
in the algebra
of everyday language.