Forgotten Tongues

on the path to remembering the beauty of this world

I am trying to write to you,

but I have forgotten this ancient language

I used to bleed. What letters do I lay down

to forge simile from metaphor, is it just screaming

all the different ways to spill

the same blood over and…? What sound

do I make to keep your voice the smoke and mine

the burning sage? I thought it died—

this tongue, this anchor —

but I see the start of resurrection, a kind of worship

to the only God I serve. Hear the chorus of angels

as he calls me names in his first tongue,

as I teach him songs in mine,

as the water reminds me how coarse it can be,

and the earth whispers its ancient hymns.

I forgot what I was missing - forgot

that languages don’t die

until we refuse to speak them

until we refuse to teach them.