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