i've got this tongue,
a writhing thing,
knows just one language
full of conflict and rules undone,
wretched words
like that one there
wretch
the face twists just saying it
(though that's rather beautiful,
i suppose).
my grandmother always spoke
italian,
thick curly ribbons of phrase
strewn about her weaving hands
most telling us to go fuck ourselves
while ladling more broth into our bowls.
the language will die with her
(call me stubborn or lazy)
but i'm keeping the voodoo,
the statues buried upside down,
whispers braided into hair,
and the clucks of prayers
and practiced gestures
(back off, oh evil eye!)she kept
in the pocket of her grease stained apron,
right next to the mirror.
No comments:
Post a Comment