Zara Raab-l

E S L

 

 

Since we parted by consensus,

you and I have passed many noons

in politest conversation,

in phrases not native to us.

 

Our mother tongue––the language

known first-hand even to Shakespeare

before I.Q. and time’s passage

so aptly circumcised the ear––

is all gesture and mew and trill.

 

Before our destinies were clear

our signals blazed atop a hill,

or like honey bees in the brain

they murmured as we sipped our wine.

 

So forgive us if we falter,

slipping back into the culture

of tender eyes and lips and hugs,

the not quite forgotten gutturals

of grunts and snarls, slant smiles and shrugs.