Translation Loss

The girl behind the plexiglass

has a silver ring through her septum

and a patience that feels like a deadline.

I want to ask for the dark roast

with two sugars and the milk on the side,

but my throat is full of dry crackers.

The verb for 'wanting' is a ghost

haunting the back of my palate.

My tongue is a heavy, uncooperative muscle

knocking against my teeth

like a blunt tool

I forgot how to use.

I end up pointing at the menu,

a tourist in the zip code where I was born,

while the grammar of my mother

dissolves like a pill

in a glass of water I didn't finish.