Learning Spanish

My r’s won’t roll, they stumble.
My n’s don’t flow, they crawl.

Vowels can’t make the needed pirouettes
from familiar English rhythms;

they crumble to the floor holding their toes.
Yet, I try, driven to read Neruda out loud,

to hear the beauty of his soft vowels
each speaking their own name.

Slow progress but progress comes.
I eavesdrop on Spanish conversations.

Words rise upwards like bread.
Some I am able to eat. They taste of ink and

and paper and honey, curl under into my pores
waiting. Sometimes now my r’s do roll

one day the n’s did flow
carrying me with them on a silver stream

before I hit the dam of self consciousness
and landed on the shore.

But each day, each lesson, something
is happening. My lips are remembering, my tongue

glides when it needs to, hitting the back
of my teeth to make the perfect Spanish d.

Words pour into a cup of learning
I drink and drink and want to drink more.

To the day I will be drunk with success.
Ah, that will be sweeter than any sangría.