"-"

She is the last.

“Abuela” speaks the language;

fluently they say,

how can they know?

She’s eighty-nine,

or maybe eighty-seven,

miscounted fingers

cannot tell them.

I am just one,

another speaking in tongues,

fluently they say,

the ones who know.

I’m from CABA

or better, Buenos Aires,

Lunfardo fluent,

making movies.

We are sitting,

Abuela kneads a handbag

just waiting for me

as I am for her.

Her eyes are mine,

surrounded with earned wrinkles,

mysteries hidden

from such as me.

The sound is the

camera, film in sprockets,

replacing the words

we do not share.

mamihlapinatapai