A Language in the Bones

Ma on the phone, her voice so low,

then words I barely understand, they flow

like a river, ancient, from a distant land,

a current I can only feel, not quite command.

It’s the tongue of ancestors, hard and keen,

a whisper of a life I’ve never seen.

My grandma’s hands, always rough and quick,

peeling potatoes, a practiced flick.

Her English, broken, a careful, slow art,

each sentence a battle, tearing at my heart.

She’d say "home," but her eyes would shift away,

to fields of green she saw another day.

I carry their names, their worries, too,

a heavy coat, always worn anew.

This accent of mine, it feels so plain,

no foreign lilt, no lingering rain

of old-world sound. But still, inside I find,

a history woven, left behind.

A stubborn pride, a fear to lose,

the language of their desperate views.

My roots are here, but branches stretch and bend,

to where their journey had to truly end.