There’s a ghost of
another language
shadow-dancing
under my words.
A phantom
tongue that unravels
like liquor, inspires
like song.

I need this language.
I need its curlicues of nuance,
its coconut-husk hardness,
its sweet sexy pulp once
it’s been broken in. I need its weight;
history, memory, tyranny, art.
I need to be reminded what
impostors
my words are
to the spirit that births them,
the spirit that thrums
in them, taut, deep, echoing.

I breathe in one language and
exhale in another.