all my poems are expats
cast out from my language
from the way of speaking
in which i order coffee
in which i tell my sister
that i love her

it's hard to say why
maybe it's that
it's harder on the rhythm
or there's a smaller audience
and it's nice to be heard sometimes

but there's something else
i lied
i don't really tell my sister
that i love her
in my language

for so many years
it's been a language
that was stuck in my throat
when it was so hard to say
anything

i don't know whether
sapir and whorf were right
with their linguistic relativity theory
but i know i can only speak about
what's really inside of me
while outside of me

from a distance of a whole dictionary