I watch her mouth move, and I stumble over
the makings of her sound to get close to her.
I’ve lost all my favorite tusbax and scarves
in rooms half lit & full of vowels touching teeth.
The twisting of the tongue means nothing here.
I listen to my voice while another grasps for dinner.
I speak and eyes widen long into the night. They stretch their
necks closer to god in hopes that translation will reach them.
Will reach me. I borrow the sounds of eyebrows, skin, & hands
to guide me. Turning language into a soft body I can talk to.
Hooya says to be careful with this tongue. To let it
consume you is to carry ghosts in every sentence.
Yet, I watch the books that passengers hold onto on the metro.
What language do they carry? Which one will I spill into tonight?
Now I only dream in English. I do not recognize my own voice.
I open my mouth and it carries no perfume of the people before me.
English tucks my children in at night, cradles them into rest, into
being. It carries my heavy body into tomorrow & asks for everything
in return. I watch my mother’s mouth move in prayer.
I let it consume the folds in between my eyes and hands.
She demands me to speak in our native language.
Yet, my tongue curls into a stutter, unable to resurrect
words that were left outside all day with no one to carry them.
