Sitting in my first-grade classroom I
was struggling to find words when my
teacher told me to either say it in
English
or don’t say it at all her words earned
at the back of my eyes echoing behind
the Filipino TV shows playing in my
parents bedroom ever since then I kept
my harsh accent of the way in my lungs
where hung in the crevices of European
literature until it was almost as if it
was never really there sometimes my
tongue still slips and gets caught in
between my teeth underneath the roof of
my mouth as I struggle to suppress the
crashing of consonants because it sounds
nothing like the Blues nose finish no
crescendo no rising and falling or
steady breaths tsuki tones my native
tongue but like notes falling off a page
an unfinished song submerged in static
choppy syllables holding me in Kachinas
on buko pandan in the palm of their
calloused hands my language runs through
the dirty markets the smell of m’naghten
mangoes cutting through morning air fish
ball and the hope vendors scaling the
spokes jeez the sound of their big
tricycles
