just a line in a song.

he asked me what languages I speak
the Bolivian rift of his tongue
dividing and divining my secrets

I told him:

I speak demolition
I speak wild-fire and quick-wind
I speak empires burned; only to be built again on ashes.

What I didn't tell him:

a mortar-and-pestle tongue
match sticks for finger tips
fluent in fail-safes and 
emergency exit rows

i pronounce packed bags like a pro