Arrow in Translation

by mk sukach

I don’t speak another language
or have anything to tell you
in any tongue not my own,
I’m not on a small road
in a foreign country,
in a wood I don’t recognize
the glossolalia of what,
a thousand birds betrayed
by their song strangled
in a thicket,
and yet I’m often traveling,
pulled by the roots,
caught in a flutter,
or as I was about to say,
quivering.

First appeared in The Indianola Review and subsequently in Hypothetically Speaking, Encircle Publications.