In Both Languages
Here on earth we translate eyes
into ears and hearts into words.
We run needles through streams,
thread thoughts together like leaves
on barren trees. Today the dogs
next door bark unceasing, and my cat
hasn’t returned from his morning walk.
His breakfast waits like a new
hat
for a headless giant. Perhaps the animals
have all gone up the mountain, or would
if they weren’t tied here by rope or loyalty.
Mynah birds wait until almost too late, give
a last warning squawk, then turn into dark
receding blots against the sky.
Where will you be when the earth trembles
like an enraged lover?
How will you translate into
meaning
what you grab to take along? What
will fill your open hands, what will
tumble on the path when you follow
the animals up the mountain?
I used to think I would seize
my contact lenses on the way outside
in the middle of the night: what good
would I be in an emergency if I
couldn’t see? Later, it was my laptop,
all that history I didn’t want to lose.
Now, today, this evening, I
would take
only myself, and urge my dog and cat
to follow.
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