In my peripherals I see the man
beside me laugh
and turn toward me.
No—
toward a mark on the wall
behind me.
I don’t look up. I’m reading.
I take a sip of hot cardamon tea.
We are travelers among other travelers
in an outpost by the sea.
He is talking with the man
beside him, saying where he is going.
"Into a storm," he says.
The laugh harasses his voice.
I breathe steam from my tea.
I hold the mug like an offering
in my palms.
We meet in transit, strange to each other
A woman sits beside me
on the other side
and a man is with her.
(Husband?) I blink up. (No, father) I blink down.
They are speaking Italian.
like birds of passage between a country and a country
suffering from the same affliction of sleeplessness
They don’t know I understand.
"Ma sai dov’è il te?" she says to the man.
She asks him where the tea is
and I almost tell her
the tea cart is around the corner
but I’m reading and she doesn’t know
I understand.
I don’t look up. I read the lines again
and again, listening.
like birds of passage
"Allora vado a fare un giro," she says
she will go for a walk, and I know
she will find the tea cart.
She will return with tea, I think.
we find each other in the night
while others sleep. And between
the languages you speak and the several I remember
The woman returns with tea
and sips it. And I sip mine
and I read, listening.
"Io sono io," she says
I am me.
I am who I am.
And the man tells her
even in this you are unique.
we convene at the one we have in common,
a language neither of us were born to
I stop reading and watch
through the haze of my peripherals.
He strokes her hand.
And we talk. We talk with our voices,
and we talk with our bodies.
I flick a glance and a smile
then return to my reading
and to the vapor rising
from my tea.
March 17, 2026