Though your day has been long, I’m proud that you made it
to the other side. I know the impossible task of it.
I’m glad to be here with you in the noraebang
dancing offbeat to the music. As we attempt to meet
in each other’s languages, Papago displays
your name: the dead of winter. And I understand what is lost
in translation. I point to my lips and stumble through
“죄송합니다, 한국말을 잘 못해—”
and then you lean into me as if to complete the fragment in
my mouth. But now, not even English marches out.
Since you just arrived from a grave, I know
there is probably so much you can’t say.
I know that lie we tell ourselves. To think that if we
held someone’s life differently, they wouldn’t have taken it.
Even if I could, how do I describe the feeling I get when
we are silent in this room together?
Sometimes it’s not us, but language, that isn’t enough.