Published in L.E.S. Review Fall 2011

Second Adolescence in Vienna, Paris, Bruges, Amsterdam

Only fluent in water: stopped throat, a clog in the sink,
a plumbing system measured in sobs. A tongue whose muscle memory

forgot how to be a tongue. The moon is made of milk – no, butter. It does not
comfort me here, a scalp turned away, a canoe swimming toward the buoyant stars.

I do not recognize its face from my celestial latitude. A bird tears itself in half
at the zenith on my map. The animal is the worst kind of tourist. I had questions

in a language I could speak but not understand. All Europeans speak nostalgia.
Sometimes I picked up on a similar dialect that confused me. Longing.