I learnt to breathe in Romanian
but I swallowed the secrets of English with my breakfast
sprinkled German consonants on my lunch
and took small French sips of my champagne
And now I cannot unsay
or jump in tangential arcs from one rooftop to the next
with gleeful glance at the abyss
rushing up to stun me at every move.
At times I fear
to speak at all in words
of more than one syllable.
But if, by the side of a poem,
there is a sharp intake of breath, that too
is the echo of my mothertongue.