Sometimes Never

Talking, we begin to find the way into

our hearts, we who knew no words,

words being a rare commodity

in those countries we left behind.

Both refugees and similarly deprived,

we marvel at the many things there

are to say: so many variations

and colors of the same thought, so

many different lengths in the words

that line up together on our tongues.

No scarcity, no rationing, no

waiting in line in order to buy

the same answer we heard each time

we asked, that one word, owned by

the state, manufactured by the state,

serving all purposes equally alike:

No, No, No, and sometimes Never.