she cried on a day that should have been celebratory
and I did not have words

she danced an ode written to cumbia
she danced it out with grace
with verbs so fine  
you knew she held the present
at every sway
she did not have words

we walked to food joint next to the bar
rolled out the English language
in exchange for sustenance
“what are words?”

I picked up our food
drunkenly shook out some lingo
and the grey-haired man on the other side of the counter
took a deep breath and stayed silent
“Are words needed ?”

the Kamikaze shots and the tequila made our tongues soft
and our upper palates dry
pouring only thirst, into our youth  

and there,
eyes soaked in meaning
in a circus of incertitude,
the cold wind turned divine flurried our hair

*“we do not have words.”