The language we speak:
an empty plate—
yet I hear fullness
if her mouth is wiped clean,
and her belly sighs against mine in sleep.
My pockets, barren.
Still, I hear security
if her toes are wrapped in warmth.
I read the headlines,
grief written in startling ink.
But at the patter of tiny feet,
I hear myself—gentle again,
worryless for just one breath.
My eyes sting,
lids trembling open,
but as the cradle rocks
and a coo breaks the hush,
I hear sleep,
as if it were mine.
And when you find me:
dress stained with milk and vomit,
you hear it too,
sharp and low in the throat.
We speak our language in glances,
never having met,
yet fluent nonetheless.
In our femininity,
you lift the bottle before it falls.
In our femininity,
we detect her cry before it forms.
Still—no words exchanged between us,
and yet,
we have spoken every syllable
of the world’s most vital tongue.