I know only two languages,
which seems small
and dim
like living in a big city
and walking for a whole life
along the same
two streets.
Other languages,
a thousand veiled worlds,
lay dormant for me
tempting me with their promise
of new ways of seeing
if only I could teach my tongue
their colours.
In Finnish,
I would learn
the shock of anger.
In Mandarin,
a plug of questions
would burst out,
like how does it feel to grieve?
In Portuguese,
I would understand that
in the seven years
I have loved you,
I have only just begun,
and we would laugh,
giddy with all the exploring
left to do.