Tongue-Tied

She asked in German, clear,

the old familiar roll

of her words.

And I understood.

Every syllable, the question

hanging plain.

But when I opened my mouth,

to answer, to help,

it came out wrong.

A stuttering, tangled mess.

My own tongue

a stranger in my mouth.

The German words

just behind a pane of glass,

perfectly formed,

but out of reach.

Her polite, confused smile.

My own hot flush of shame,

a ghost of who I came.

A garden of words,

once tended,

now overgrown,

the paths disappearing

under silent weeds.

A silent plea, a loss for me.