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“How Do You Forget Your Native Language?”
As long as friends
build bread ovens in their backyard
after old patterns,
with all those who have left,
I feel the tide of the river
waving its rhythm of words.
A carved baby crib swings
on the porch, where an eighty-year-old woman
hums to her great-granddaughter, waits
for the sunset when the mother returns
to feed them both and make them
smile with no teeth.
Bake me a dozen sweet breads for Easter,
let cauldrons of stuffed grape leaves
simmer outside on an open fire.
I paid my leaving with salt and swords:
in every sentence in another
language, I have tasted the succor
of longing, the wine of your vineyards.
I traded the syntax of your arches,
your alternations of hill and valley,
for words on the tip of the tongue,
hesitations of songs nobody can finish,
a choir nobody can join.
At night, I leave the gates open
for my father, who, tipsy,
didn’t find his way home.