The Sadness of the Lingua Franca by Christina Davis

The Sadness of the Lingua Franca

In Bird, I speak brokenly. Hiss and flail and never learn.

And the swan will never mouth

the noun for bread,

the declensions of crumb. Though i could stop

its migration with a crumb.

After English, we never do get to be strangers again.

The language is famous and followed,

it has no loneliness left.

It has made it to the moon. It has got god

to speak it. It will get

to everything first, if it can.

But not the swan, pale as a page

I will never have written.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s