Rust in the Mouth

She asked me something in Spanish

and my mouth went blank—

a wall where the words used to be,

a drawer that won't open.

Sí, she needed. Just one syllable.

I had it once, I swear I did,

kept it close like a small animal,

spoke it aloud in the shower,

whispered it to myself in cars.

Now it's gone. Rusted. Disappeared

into whatever place forgotten things go

when you stop paying attention.

She waited with her kind face,

which was worse than judgment,

worse than the moment stretching

between us like something dying.

I could feel it, the word, somewhere

in my skull, but my tongue

had betrayed me, my throat

had locked shut, my brain

refusing to translate

the bridge between what I was

and what I've become.

She smiled and moved on.

I stood there holding the nothing,

knowing that you don't lose a language all at once—

it leaves in pieces, one word at a time,

until one day a stranger asks and you realize

you're someone else now, someone smaller,

someone who used to know

the word for yes.