Sweet Nothings
April 5 2022
Taking a stab
with your elementary French
or high school Spanish,
feels like regressing
to grade school or kindergarten.
You can only express
the simplest thoughts
most basic desires.
You are travelling in a foreign land
where no one understands,
but who must just imagine
you're not very smart.
So you learn to listen
observe.
Take chances,
because you're not impressing anyone.
It can be fun to play the fool
throw up your hands.
To free yourself
of expectation
and simply be present
reputation be damned.
Sometimes, when we talk
I feel just as lost,
as if on a rocky coast
across a stormy ocean
battered by surf,
or bargaining hard
in some exotic bazaar.
Like speaking to a foreigner
in my native tongue,
I speak louder, slower
enunciate my words.
Except
when they come in short sharp bursts
intended to hurt,
wound
but leave no mark.
Perhaps French would work better,
the language of love.
Or Spanish,
where they come alive
in the cool of night
in the romantic plazas
of Madrid or Seville.
Where we would both take care
to keep it simple.
Pack light
and lose the tiresome baggage.
Act
like gracious guests
who depend on the kindness of strangers.
In our apartment
after dark,
whispering sweet nothings
and perfectly understood.
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