tongues

the language of my childhood lives in the space between my teeth and tongue a house I visit only in dreams now where every word tastes like soy sauce egg rice and sounds like my grandmother's lullabies swaying from hammocks in rooms that no longer exist I practice the inflections in front of mirrors watching my mouth crease at the edges forming shapes I saw from watching her lips move like prayer my lips wrestling to remember the music of a place I left before I knew what leaving meant I am only eight utility bill phone call a word slips out untranslatable my tongue polishing like light on lacquerware and for a moment I am five years old again running through streets that knew my name before I learned to pronounce it any other way