We Drew Out the Feeble Language
Vienna in August and we walked
Klimt to Mozart, drank
Wiener wasser, a phrase that made our odd
American hearts laugh,
ate roasted chicken
at the Landtmann, Freud’s favorite café,
bought a painting of the cityscape
under a storm, napped
in a park until the sun
went down and walked
to a church bench to sit.
Still —
the city was a mouth
of ivory statues and red carpets,
a language of splendor
we were not born to.
Then, from a chain link fence
like every chain link fence,
a family in burqas, black button up shirts
waved in the street light.
They beckoned — that oldest gesture
of welcome — held up teacups.
Refugee floated like a cloud
above them, the way Tourist hovered
above us. They offered us tea
and pieces of English and their faces,
bright as stars
in the spacious night.
They offered themselves and we drank
each other’s company.
Then foolishly, foolishly,
we drew out the feeble language
of American money. A language
they did not know
or need. It was not bread
or tea. It was not friendship
though we held out our hands.
I have told and re-told this story
like I’m picking apart
a knot, trying to find the center,
what’s tangled where.
There were no clouds, no words
in the air. We were all reaching and broken
and utterly human.
And like the bright, wise doves
roosting in the city, they cooed
then gazed
then turned away.