Open books

I look at people’s faces as if they were open books,

written in the language my Grandmother used to speak to me when I was new.

I answered her in English and I was told that we understood each other completely.

Sometimes I think I can understand what I see in people’s faces,

though I don’t always care for what their faces say.

I wonder if my Grandmother would have understood them better.

But why would I even try to read the faces of strangers?

Except that they are like an open book

and sometimes I have read what I have wanted to believe since I was new.

I answer the faces as I naturally would.

I admit that I do not always know what I am saying

and sometimes I don’t know what I have read.

I don’t even remember talking to my Grandmother.

But I’m fascinated by people’s faces.

I read them as if they were an open book

in a language my Grandmother might have understood.