What Leaves First

The text arrives in Spanish and I read it

the way you read something underwater—

slow, word by word, sounding it out

like a child, like I haven't spent

five years speaking this language,

like I haven't lived in a city

where the grocery stores announce

their specials in this voice.

I get stuck on the verb.

The conjugation sits in my brain

like a word I should know,

like a door I should be able to open,

but the key is gone. I know

I learned this. I know

it lived in me once.

Now it's just a shape,

a ghost of a rule I memorized

and forgot the moment I stopped needing it.

I text back in English.

It's easier. It's faster.

It's the language of surrender,

the language of not trying.

My friend will understand.

Or maybe they won't.

Maybe they'll notice the shift.