she lies restless for a time before
turning, knowing my own sleeplessness
to ask what the English word for fleuve is.
my second language fumbles for words buying
groceries and coffee, gives up and tries English
but I know this one
‘River’.
‘Ok, but a really big river, comme la fleuve Saint Laurent.’
she’s become tidal, the full moon pulling her
like a kite out the window and into the night.
I know a thousand English words for small rivers,
creeks, streams. a crick.
how many fundamental misunderstandings
between our languages with words
you know the feel of in your bones
and that taste like home, fleuve
salty on your lips
while crick runs narrow and mossy
muddy in my mouth.