When I was five, my family and I visited
the cloister gardens of Valldemosa, Spain, briefly home

to Chopin and George Sand, the romantic names still
clinging to vine and moss on old stone,

enchanting my soul deeply. I discovered language
when my father dropped a stone

into the well’s throat, forcing the depth to sing
back one halting note upon which I shouted my name—

leaning my body’s full weight over the edge,
my father’s hands staying my hips—the well’s lips spitting

sound back into my face, no longer recognizable
but an opening from constriction, a war cry of spirit

caught deep inside the vortex of circular brick,
which was my own soul wanting out.

—Published in Ilya’s Honey