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