the ways in which language fights my locality

By Kiran S.

the breath of this language kisses my cheek/ and speaks in
a dull whisper/ the breath of this language reeks of/ anxiety
and loss/ tells me she is always searching for home/ tells me
her children/ have abandoned her/ tells me that i too/ was
once her child/ the breath of this language lives on in me/
but speaks/ an imported tongue/ the breath of this language
scolds me/ tells me i have become distant/ uprooted/ foreign
in my exile/ tells me/ my mother’s migration was a mistake/
the breath of this language/ is angry/ i no longer look like her/ i
have never looked like her/ even my speech no longer sounds/
the way it should/ like the aftermath of/ a dust storm/ the fog/
of a hazy skyline/ the eloquence/ of a sweltering sunrise/ the
breath of this language clenches my shoulders and grasps my
throat/ she tries clawing the exile out from inside of me/ the
breath of this language ignores my apologies/ for they are no
longer sacred/ they are hollowed in translation/ the breath of
this language always threatens to leave me/
the breath of this language is always fighting with me/ i am

no child of hers she tells me/ she will be no mother to my chil-
dren/ the breath of this language is no longer soft/ she is lan-
guished/ she is lament/ she is loss/ she sees no future only a

past/ i have nothing to give but myself/ i open my mouth/ but
the breath of this language is frigid/ she is sharp/ she cuts me

and the only thing that falls are fragments/ of what i was be-
fore her/ of what i am becoming/ without her/