By: Vanessa Nim
Image courtesy of Pexels
My father’s thoughts //
encrypted, buried by the
monolithic lisp of a newcomer //
a visible other // and my own lack
of self-discipline. They say to
heal // you have to talk // but how
do you speak // when you are
being gagged by your own
mother tongue? // Every arching
tone and lisp // given in my blood
// scraping off and crusting into
dust. Characters and intonations
// lost // between my father’s
hand // and my mother’s grief.
Do you go to church, Vanessa? //
Do you know Jesus? he pleads. //
Maybe God could tell you // what
my blood failed to teach.