Before leaving English, I cling to words
I haven’t paid attention to in years:
dirndl and trill and sin, until the thought
of spending weeks without them is too sad
to think about. Come with me, I invite
my monolingual husband, so at night
you can whisper sweet nothings in my ears
against possession by my native tongue.
Even if Spanish made me who I was,
it’s English now that tells who I am.
You talk like an addict, my husband scolds.
Language is not a drug! (But I get high
working a line until I get it right,
like finding the last puzzle piece or bulb
that lights up the whole string of Christmas lights!)
My family claims that I’ve deserted them:
One thing is learning English, another
to think you’re lost without it, por favor!
You left in exile—that was not your fault.
This passion is a second desertion.
Before leaving, I touch the shelves of books,
then close my study door reluctantly
like a child casting a longing glance
at bedtime at her bears and dressed-up dolls,
posed to enact some simple ritual,
a tea party, a classroom scene. Stay!
Don’t you dare move! But English won’t obey,
no living language will. When I come back
it will take días to collect myself,
pieces of me not fitting anywhere.