The professor warns us
there will be no translation,
we figure it out as we go along.
To learn a language you must open doors
into rooms where words hide like shy relatives,
waiting to be pulled into the conversation.

I rewind the tape through ca va and tiens-
Celeste riding her bike, Celeste meeting
friends at the library, encountering
her aunt walking her white terrier, who
is fatigué, tres fatigué.  I say ca va
to my dog, êtes-vous fatigué aussi?

I imagine people rushing through
the streets of Paris, asking everyone they meet,
Hey, how are you, are you tired?
How's it going?  What's up?  I think of
myself sitting in a café, pulling phrases
out of my pockets and handing them to 
the waiter like change.  My accent
makes him think of cheese.

When someone breaks your heart in France
your name still sounds beautiful on their lips.
French is a vase I stuff flowers into, a canvas
where colors blend like diplomats at a reception,
and the painting is never finished.

The introduction to my workbook says
no one can truly know their own
language until they learn another.
English is the shore, French is the waves,
and I row my little boat onto the water,
watching the horizon until it disappears.