The Edge of SPanish

There’s a flower at the bottom of the sea
and the waves carry its petals to the shore.
Good luck to anyone who walks the sand they litter,
mingling with the pebbles and sea glass.

We’re all wrapped in languages we don’t know –
they pour in through the vents, trapped inside flowers,
tongues raising on vowels,
slipping past the teeth, a gentle c.

No red roses, no thorns, only these
delicate faces perched upon stems once green,
now turned a yellowish-brown, overused
and all the more beautiful for being abused
by the powerful water.

El mar nunca duerme – how hard would it be to just
say? It’s easier than to admit the swelling of your mouth
around these words that open like doors. Like songs,
except the notes change based on the voice.

The whole world changes, and there is no way
to warn them except in your native tongue which no one
wants to pursue, yet tries to learn. Teach it to me now,
they say, but leave after a word. The sea has listened
for a long time now – it remains mute.

It will not teach the secrets that have walked along
its body and its back, not caring that they will be
tossed around the thrashing surface. Look!
It’s going now. The sea is disappearing. El mar se ha ido.