In My Native Tongue

maybe we were written there in all the forgotten languages

by the ardor of God and etched in clay

before the half moon translations set in

with the second or third snows on snow

of the soul's Rosetta Stone.

where did the moonlight all go wept the child;

when God breathed life into the ferns my ferns?

or just after...

encryption isn't everything,nor tree ring disasters

filed away

one leaden symbol following another

in the realm of things overexplained

registering, no feeling;

the codes defined.and all lined up with the stars,

the ancient sediments.

we had wings then, circumventing time;

pink linen napkins at the table;

nursery rhymes.

then later, story times embroidered with the Sun;

the garden gardenia clear in the water glass shining.

I have seen the runes strung like pearls on every rung:

what wish will you grant me in a cryptic aside

I wasn't lavished with enchantingly

in days of gold, at home,

you have run every test there is to run!

and in a dream language all my own.and in

my native tongue.

mary angela douglas 2 february 2022;9 february 2022