When I was 5, I stole a piece of candy from the grocery store.
When I was 11, with my throat burning, I confessed this sin
to my father, who tilted his head as he looked at me and said,
Why are you telling me this?
Years later I gave birth to my one dear son,
and when I whispered my hopes and dreams
in his ear, he looked at me like my father did.
Now too, I guess, I was not making any sense.
Sometimes, language is insufficient.
