[her Foreign Language]

her foreign language rubbed my chest to empty my lungs of recent smog. glazed eyes begging her to close them. to help. each word danced its rhythm, silhouetting mockingbirds pace their movement into my ears. vulnerable lids try not to shut. makes it easier. “And if that mockingbird don’t sing ” () she promised a lot. promised to show me what it feels like to smile. that lobe to lobe smile. and she worked to keep it. she worked a lot. lived by paper week to week. but we didn’t notice when she cuddled next to the cold imprint where he, where we, where I used to sleep. we didn’t notice her tears either. we were already taken away by her song. she cries a lot now. sixty minutes, half-a-state from embrace. her song, still as mystical as years back, when my feet reached three squares down. mystified. still, through distant words I need her song to put me to sleep. to fill my lungs with life. and grace me with smiles only deserved for a son. for her little man. for her only man. “ Hush little baby don’t say a word ” () ()-> traditional verse