Bliss

I want to know your language.

So the next time scorn rolls from her crackled acorn eyes

to bread-knife tongue,

marred by lipstick devoured by pursed lips,

I will hear her choice words

and chose my words carefully.

For now, my verbal artillery

contains popgun phrasing of

I don’t

know, understand or speak,

complimented by off-putting pleasantries like

thank you beautifully or lovely weather today.

Then again, I don't want to understand,

why stranger smiles rouse only suspicions

and muttering sighs habitually echoed.

It's better to quiet my voices and beam.

My default of ignorance

is to feign bliss.