Languages
I know six languages,
The one I write in
The one I speak in,
My mother’s words,
My father's verse,
And those of my brothers.
My mother speaks quickly
In baking terms and 80’s slang
She speaks in sewing materials,
Starbucks orders,
And references to Bon Jovi.
My father speaks with nature,
I just happen to hear him.
He converses with trees,
And pebbles worn smooth by time.
His language is filled with bar chords,
Childhood lullabies,
And culinary jargon.
The words he shapes are crafted by knowledge that I won’t admit I see.
Two years younger than me is an entirely different language,
Though one I understand.
Covered feelings form a language
I used to know quite well
Spoken in anger
Or begrudging hope
He lives in a pixelated world
With his eyes glued to a screen
He speaks in accordance to what is thought,
Usually not his thoughts guiding his actions
Strict participant in social norm,
Too much is said about what he hasn’t done and not enough about what he has
The youngest speaks in an entirely
Too innocent language
One I have come to detest
For the unwelcome flashbacks it brings
I don’t speak his language
Doubt I ever will again.
His quick words are full of legos,
Cartoons,
And Kung Fu Panda.
His actions are a reminder of a song I have forgotten.
I speak in limericks,
Dramatic monologues,
And Iambic Pentameter.
My words are full of colors and grasped by few
For they float by much too quickly
Full of mentions of J. K. Rowling
And pop culture. My wonder is stuck
In the impossible,
For I have yet to believe it is so.
I speak in song lyrics and quotes.
My words are full of grudging resilience,
Quick wit,
And sarcasm.
It does not matter what language we speak,
Or what percent Irish we think we are,
We are alike on what matters,
Like our love for literature,
Our patriotism of Gryffindor,
And our intrest in politics.
The languages we speak tie us together,
They are what make us unique.
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