Fic: Tongues

Summary: Mary POV circa 12x02-12x03. Free verse.
Rating: G, mature themes obliquely alluded to.
A/N: The reference to the past being a foreign country originated with The Go Between by L.P Hartley.

 It isn't exactly that she doesn't want to talk about it now. She just doesn't know
how to talk about it. She's not sure there are any words to talk about it
in. She taught her firstborn first words in a dead language from
a foreign country where they do things differently.
Without words for how it felt or how she feels, the way the world is not quite real
inside when her boys just brush against her coming home to a hole in the ground
with their fathers' footsteps and tongues wagging words
like put the game on and gimme a beer or something stronger
and gotta see to that carburetor and love it when you get bossy
Without the way his cupping palm fit there his hand at rest on hers
and listening to her own heart beat in time with his breath, asleep.
Without her babies, asleep or unquiet, crying
out for her to leave the bed and her own surety
of being held to offer up the same.
Babies impossibly alive, blood singing electric, every single minute,
without road shadow, ripped denim, ragged spirits and
the cursed long night of war where John went and came back and went again
and where she went and came back and went again.
She wanted to stay in bed that deciding night
but she had only three things that defined her, three princes warring for her attention
and in war sacrifices must be made.
Tonight John wrote to her from that foreign country: I know Mary would say it's
not the house gone that matters. That's just a house, and home is where we are,
what we make. I know she's right, it's just, I look around and there's
just no destination where the absence won't be I'm always walking
over my own grave
She concurs: that's what they're good at, isn't it? The one common tongue they all speak
is the dead one and the one the ghost steals from the living.