Alone to sup in a translucent enclave,
Once surrounded by loving eyes
Gazing upon troubled vowels
Of a man unaware of the coxcomb
He wore.
Dumplings of meat and fat
Floating in a soup of milk,
Balance between tomes and scraps
Engraved by frantic hands
Obsessed, yet unaware.
“Maybe this, maybe that.
Maybe repeat after me:
This is how you say this
When you want to mean this,
And not the other way”
They said with helpful breaths.
Breaths gave way to visions
Of times gone and shared
With others far away,
And the other huddled around
The glowing flames and keys
To share in that dream,
If only for the length
Of one beat of the heart.
Outside, the wind cried howling yells,
Not sweet whispers of spring,
But chilled dirges of winter
That pierced the skin,
But not the skin of the man
In the wooden home.
Composed 06/08/2012
Author’s Note: This was a particularly challenging day for me. I was studying the small collection of Mongolian words I had accumulated in my notebook, when my host family came in and tried to help. They all stood around me and began rustling through my notebook, which upset me a great deal. I feel that notebooks are very personal things, coded in such a way that makes the most sense to you. They weren’t teachers either, so they just stared at the lists of words and decided the best way to proceed was to just say all the words aloud. Finally, my host brother asked, in English, what I needed help with as everyone stared upon me.
“I don’t know” was all I could muster to say.
It was overwhelming for so many reasons that were unclear to me. I can still remember their confused stares, as if they were asking “Why are you getting upset?”
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