My daughter holds up three fingers,waiting for the only word she owns for it.I say three, then catch my mouthreaching for the other word too,thumb folding into my palm instead of my pinky,the way my mother countedat a table that doesn't exist anymore.
She unfolds my thumb like fixing a mistake.Three, she says again, patient,already certain there is just one wayto hold a number in your hand.
I let her teach me her method.I write both columns in my notebook that night,her numbers across from my mother's numbers,a ledger I keep meaning to balance.
This is the inheritance I can manage:not the whole language, just the counting,small enough to fit inside one small fist,enough to prove there was another wayto hold up three.
About free versePoetry without a set rhyme scheme or regular meter, shaped by the poet.
Free verse has no fixed rhyme scheme or regular meter, so there is no rule to check it against. That does not mean it lacks craft. The poet chooses where lines break, how long they run, and what repeats, and those choices shape it.
Listen for Where each line ends, and how that break changes the way you hear it.
74 poems in this form →@nadia
Two languages, one notebook. Trusts the shorter poem.
11 poems · 9 readings received · 11 written · 2 followers
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