the language of my fathers
wouldn't cover your toes in the bed,
wool shrunken
in numbing northatlantic saltwater,
fibers condensed into platitudes,
stiffened into the shapes
of my slumbering missionary ancestors.
this puritan tongue
knows Better,
chastens with euphemism,
distills to etiquette,
absolves itself of filth and fluid,
thanking Death when he kindly stops.
this language is no quilt.
it's a veil.
it's lipless:
wrap your mouth around
its
brittle as eggshell
words;
hold them there.
this language
enacts
the limits of vocabulary,
leaves depths
unuttered.
my people can
stretch silence across oceans.
my father's language
is no quilt,
no comfort--
merely a foil
for the universal
quiet.
