The Siren World

I hear translated calls.
Terms for birds snatch
moths, rivers smother
mountains, skies fused into
mouths like alloys.

My mind’s resistance
to pluck new words from the air
is naïve, but I fight how my tongue
twists in awkward positions
until they naturalize to speak.

The world seduces me to be
the conquistador who strips armor on the beach,
consents to clothes
tattering off his frame, and
ghosts into foliage.

When opening my mouth to speak,
English, Spanish,
Quichua, Quechua,
send me careening into
the smashed rocks of language.