Of course we begin
with the impossible—
conjugating love.
Amo, amas, amat,
My son and I sit together
on the couch and chant
the old syllables
that have informed
so many tongues.
Amamus, amatis, amant.
It’s always the first lesson
when learning
this language
that very few speak anymore.
Every other language
I’ve studied begins
with to have, to go, to be.
But no. Here we begin
with all the ways
that humans might prove
our humanness.
I love. You love. He loves.
None of us ever gets
it right. Still, we
devote our lives
to these six possibilities.
We love. You love. They love.
Everything depends on this.
To my son, they are just
syllables. He thrills
that he can remember them.
But his mother, she wanders them
like paths, semitae,
as if she is following them
through fields of flowers
with no idea where her
feet might land next,
hoping that even though
the language has died
there’s still some
vital truth in it.
She can almost
smell the perfume.