Where I go in this polyglot place,
people speak to me in their own language.
Finding refuge from the rain in the lobby's dry immunity --
seeing my dark hair, my wild eyes --
an Arab in Arabic asks my idea of all this weather;
Spaniards sing an urgent sibilant Romance lullaby,
a request for directions to la Galleria National;
an American cheers the President's stirring speech,
inviting me to share an umbrella and these applauses.
They invite hearing, understanding,
asking me to become one of them,
their voices cracking open to my audition
the words of home,
the hard, dear sounds of the mother speech.
I answer with thanks for the offer of company, of consanguinity,
for ample lexicon, the gift of gab,
the rich sudden flow of foreign yet inalienable words,
a tongue warm to the ear.
February 1990