Language Acquisition

I preferred Polliwog, even then,
squatting by the stream,
my sister poking a stick 
into silt to stir them loose.  
I wanted all three syllables, 
the round vowels,
diminutive rear legs. 
I held one fingertip frog, 
perfectly formed,
up to my nose,  
sticky little hands
pinpoint eyes, 
gullible mouth.
Each of us studying 
the other.

Like my first Spanish lesson
peering into the screen at sixty.  
Kiki in Oaxaca, me in Portland,
the sudden silence, the gap
before understanding.  
“Como dicé ‘word’?”  
Palabra.
“Como dicé ‘orange’?”  
Naranja.
“Naranja.”  “Naranja.”
I roll it around in my mouth—
the smooth vowels, 
the long n’s, the freshness 
of the exotic j.