At school I speak in careful steps,

each word a stone I test

before I put my weight on it,

in case it slips or gives.

At home the words run out ahead of me,

loud and quick, a river

that knows where it is going

before I have even started.

My teacher says my English

is coming along nicely.

My grandmother says my Spanish

is starting to sound like English.

Some nights I lie awake

between my two languages,

a bridge with traffic going both ways,

holding, and holding.