My dreams, in colour. My skin drips
melanin and no one tells me I have a beautiful
name. I have no country of origin
and I cannot be accused
of being articulate.
My childhood, remembered: mouths unsynced
with sound, words swollen and sworn. Throats
dismantled from the inside out. My tongue turned
plosive, poised at the tip of my teeth,
dubbing out of dialect.
My brain humming as it searches the synapses,
the center—the superior, the inferior, the middle
temporal gyrus, the Broca’s and Wernicke’s
—for the path to my flimsy pidgin,
my language of thought.
गुम; or, Lexical Gaps
1 February 2017