Hurts my heart, he said,
slowly, carefully, they thought
he meant he missed his country
and his people, but he died.
Another language is bulky,
the words they give you are
cinderblocks to crush your
fingers but they shrink,
smaller daily
and lighter, until
you are setting the mosaic
of your vision, that picture
still not the world but
closer, and the ridges and colors
catching the light,
almost beautiful.
My tongue is brick
my friend said, unpacking, she
do not follow you, I wish
she was bird.