Por Pablo Neruda

Looking inside
deep down-tongue-less
I stumbled on Pablo
sitting-writing-scratching like a chicken in the dirt
every once in a while a tear would fall
making mud on the floor
sticking to our shoes-making tracks everywhere we went

I asked Pablo for some paper…”and perhaps a pen….?”
He looked up …” No habla ingles “…. he sighed. “Habla en español”

I looked up

way up
and saw my tongue-trying to speak the language of his childhood

July 2006