Words

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I come from a mother who talked, advised, and organized,

all from her desk in the bedroom.

Words, words all around.

I come from a father who gave speeches and lectured.

Professorial, he delivered words,

words all around.

Now I come from a talkless home.

My own words land like oil on the man’s ears

and slide away.

His words are mostly forgotten—

the names of things, like gossamer,

tantalizing, just out of reach.

It’s a conversational desert where I am,

a parched land.

The word prints erase as soon as they land on the air.

No memory of what I said or he said.

The only words around me

are those I gather for myself

and hoard as company.

*

What were your first language experiences? Drop me a comment.

*

The fifth Karakesh Chronicle, now available from Handersen Publishing and Amazon.com

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