“All life is a foreign country”
–Jack Kerouac
All my life my tongue
could not curl about
the words spoken here—
my teeth cut my cheek
as I stumbled over
simple words, simple ideas.
I was silenced in simple
misunderstandings, in fear
of the wrong word spoken
too loudly, too softly,
or not at all.
I wish I were
a mockingbird able
to flit between the leaves
singing the song of others;
to speak earnestly around
the mundane bits of life
we share, like now, or mimic
an old man’s nod of greeting,
or children’s laughter outside
this window; or to simply cross
over the border to a home.
(September 1, 2018)
