ONE IMMIGRANT SPEAKS TO ANOTHER

The languages I know share no grammar with yours

still they trail us like colorful kites

or like faithful companions

not asking too many questions,

always willing to share that last piece of bread.

When you work with words you know that they are mouths

ready to devour you or to kiss or to bite your lips,

they are graves open to trip you

and make you drink the dark.

Or they are like lemon-scented grapes, crunchy,

polished, ready to soothe and cool your afternoon search.

And some days the words I cannot remember

(like appelskrott and vidskepelse)

or the words that have no translation at all

(like vemod) fall into the net

that floats in the current of my soul

lucid and full of warm amber,

black sea-weed, blue mussels, green waves

hard and silky

soft and solid

clear and slimy

light and heavy

like the net which some days gets so full

it pulls me under.

But a language is to words

like a harbor is to ships

like a door is to streets

and a heart to its desires.

They may feel dispirited and lonesome,

our languages lingering in a foreign land;

yet, they recognize us still and embrace our dreams.

PUBLISHED IN THE BUFFALO NEWS,

DECEMBER 2, 2007

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