Two Girls Sit on a Patchwork Couch

Afternoons I visited her, and

beneath the rainfall on her roof

cotton blankets wrapped around us I

drank in each of her syllables. She helped me

find the right shape with my own tongue,

giving my hand a squeeze when I got one right.

Half my words were nonsense. She pretended not to notice.

I envied her vocabulary, and hoped one day I would be able to

jinx her with a word like inconsequential or trivial or barbaric and

know what it meant. You’ve probably guessed I

loved her. So I stuck around like the smell of

mulch in her backyard. She took

me there once to smell the jasmine. She

didn’t mind when I pronounced the word wrong

or forgot which flowers are feminine, so I thought she loved me back.

Pity me. Imagine the

‘quiet tears I shed when I finally

remembered the shape of those words.

She had helped me sound them out

thinking they were for someone else.

Time after time I practiced until the

vortex of sound opened up to me and on

Wednesday I told her I loved her and the

xenial melody of her voice responded

yes. That’s how you pronounce it.