The Words she Spoke

She Speaks.

Her small mouth rolls the words,
Spitting out the meaning.
She explains to me the logic;
It makes perfect sense to me.

"A writer," she says,
"Must always back his nation."

I nod, passing the weed,
Letting the smoke plant a seed.
Her voice - light, airy, smokey -
Tells me her opinion

I look with liquid eyes,
Faces around the table,
Each nodding in approval.

"Mock your own country, while there,"
She states, brushing strands of hair,
"Never when you're away."

I await snapping fingers,
As if at a smokey poetry reading.
Instead, eyes tear up,
Falling on cheeks; bleeding.

Isolation in a foreign place
Gaunt skin, yellowed eyes; haunted.

"Even if you don't agree,"
(pausing to inhale)
"Back what was born to you."

A solemn silence embraces,
Surrounding my skin
My head begins to swim, my mouth dry.

We slither away to our places
Under rocks or sheets or bars
Contemplating those words.

The words she spoke.