“fundamentally,” she said, 
“i think you have always been
poet first.”

  the last dregs of August sun
were bleeding through a sky like
tissue paper, 
and we were trapped in the yellow
amber of fading light. 
i remembered a boy
about whom
it was so hard to write;

  and then it struck me
the writing was slow not because
i was stuck, but because
i was using the wrong language.

  so now we go back. 
,to the mother-tongue. 
“tell me the story, 
this time in poetry.”

A  W  A  I  T  !

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