everyone spoke to me like
I was a child;
not to condescend,
but because those words still felt
too large for my mouth,
like a bicycle
too colossal for small feet
to reach the pedals.
I needed strong hands
to guide me through linguistic
rivers and head winds;
firm words to support
tremulous phrases uttered
by my nervous self.
Ukrainian eyes
watched as the comprehension
drained out of my brain
and reached out to me
with soft words, kind words, slow words:
my sunshine, my dear.
You are doing well.
You will understand one day.
My darling young friend.
I speak Russian to
my cats because I suspect
that softness must be
shown to beings who
find me as inscrutable
as I found Ukraine.
What a world: mother
tongues offering less comfort
than tall stranger words.
