To Lose a Language
— After Su Hui Left, right, up, down, spiral in, spiral out, each the correct way to read what you say. This brocade fabric with woven words, made to communicate what can’t be said, bound instead in character that can’t be found on the tongue somehow tucked inside my face. This cascade is beautiful, a display of lines and waves unsounded in my mouth, symbols grounded in meaning, and somehow foreign to the babe born in the same place as you. I try to recite, only say aloud the dust repeated on your shroud. I ask your forgiveness and expect none For my lost, exiled, and forgotten tongue.