7. mameloshen/mother tongue

my mother’s tongue was pushed back down her throat 
before it ever swelled from a meadow of saplings into 
the sturdy trunks of sentences 
the forest of power spreading roots through her mouth 
reaching her truth to the ears of the sky
clear cut before counting the seasons to first fruits 

her mother’s tongue lived coiled up like a viper 
in the back of her mouth 
ready to strike 

but a viper is not the mean or punishing force we've imagined her into she lashes in fear and self-protection when she feels cornered with no choice but to fight 

my bubi's tongue felt trapped by the job of loving her daughter 
her mouth already crowded with grief 
like a bad dream of teeth falling out 
and it's not safe to spit them in the sink 
to let the blood and emptiness be seen 
in the mirror 

her tongue was once soft and round 
drawing buckets of truth and determination 
from the deep well of her belly 
watering the gardens of her breadth into fullness
before it was ever pinned down by desperation to stay alive 

her own mother's tongue left her side too soon
long before she could imprint it into the inner 
corridors of her cheeks, know her unbroken line 
of mothers through the orchestra of vibration 
ricocheting like fireworks from the portal of her lips 

my mother abandoned her tongue by the side of the road 
one day, decided it was easier to slip quietly into the overcoat 
of her inheritance of hiding without the nagging persistence of 
her own voice attempting to rip her silence, but even in resignation 
she snuck flashes of fight for her truth

my tongue latched early to the power of words, how the magic 
of naming can reel a choppy sea of desire into satisfied fingers

my tongue broke early, but even before that there were holes in 
my tongue I had no bandage for, thermostats in my glands 
already calibrated to accepting a normal in only knowing sounds 
my mother’s mother never once lay the underside of her rest into

I am relearning my mameloshen, my mother tongue, the first tongue 
that ever drew wings from my mother’s breath, the tongue that gave 
birth to herself a thousand times in the mouths of her descendants 
before sprouting up inside the tiny cave of my mother’s gums

i am relearning the saliva rich curl of detail and memory in untamed spit offerings 
launching from lips in service of a point, relearning the deep delve into each note
of a melody, as tho no sound existed before or will after, our only hope of finding
our way to the true note that comes next 

i am relearning to trust my own shaking hesitant tongue, to slip wet and vibrant
from its chrysalis when it is my turn to press the tender petals of our living into words