The Lack of Mother Tongue

After they let me out, you ask, Hungry?
I nod. The waitress comes.
She waits for my order,
then smiles, writes down coffee,
two eggs, buttered toast.
You ask, Anything else?
I almost say, Everything.
Instead, I shake my head.

Outside, the rain asks
nothing of me.
You watch it gather itself
against the glass.
And I watch it
find its way home.

You say, You’ll always have me.
I hear, You’ll never leave.
You smile as though
you’ve said something kind,
and my ribs become parentheses,
with everything inside them
trying to escape.

The coffee arrives.
We thank her at the same time.
For a moment, our mouths agree.
Then yours goes home,
and mine keeps translating.