Languages

By Yash Seyedbagheri

When the Revolution comes, all we have are languages.

Once, older sister Tanya and I fought in Russian, loved each other in English, and joked in French.

Now, copies of Papa’s Turgenev are ripped, Mama’s Bechstein grand piano broken, keys crushed in the streets.

How do you describe huddling in dark corners, waiting? Can you describe two siblings holding each other like children?

There’s no language to describe fighting revolutionaries. We use Mama’s Fabergé eggs as weapons, along with elegant chairs from London, turned into battering rams. We maim and vanquish lecherous soldiers, split skulls inhabiting our dreams.

We have nothing.