Don’t Say it

Not in your mother tongue,
diction
quick and soft and hushed,
not Kalahari style with plosive clicks,
or in a guttural throat purr.

Even the sibilant whisper,
the soft palate hum
would startle that wagtail’s plucky strut
and the pair of wonga pigeons
rustling in the brush.
It would interrupt the canticle of crows,
the dithering of pines.

Your words would make
the searing sky grow pale,
the distant hills darken.

Sit here with me and breathe
the inarticulate blessings
as damp rises and the sun sets.

The heat of your palm on my knee
is enough.