My tongue was born promiscuous
speaking in many languages,
my heart speaking another, my head
yet another — in seamless translation.
Auricles, ventricles perennially pump
circulating body’s blood corpuscles —
like letters, phrases and syntax do,
cross-fertilizing, breathing new life,
enriching texture. Their music,
cadence, register, enhancing spatially —
polygamy of grammar, quiet osmosis.
Can a typewriter be multilingual?
For us no country or boundary exist —
my translator, my most important ally.
My forked tongue, my passport —
like an ever-expanding Leaves of Grass.
Speech isn’t caged in imagination.
Language isn’t caged in speech.
Poem selected by Emilia Mirazchiyska, series’ editor
