My Language
I don’t neatly fall onto the library shelves between domestic and foreign literature my tongue slides down the alveolar ridge don’t touch the teeth, you sound foreign! I am not foreign to myself I miss the playful tails of the nasal vowels wiggling in my sight Give me some rustling noise And I enjoy my ashes and shwas my long “a” and when I roll my tongue unexpectedly (I violate the canon) and here I am with my messy repertoire of phonemes hands in the clay I’m sculpting something very real I am exposed by my surname by my nature by the playful act of creation