Mother Tongue
By Becca Mclean
My mother’s tongue is quick
Could sink battleships readily
If she so desired – but lately
Finds itself floundering
Searching for the right words
All the years of unspoken truths
Spooling out between us
My hands, too slow to work the threads
I grow listless, heartbeat waiting
Locked in trance as we try
To untangle ourselves
We are stuck, endlessly
Grinding the wheels down
As I hide those parts of myself
Unsavoury as they are
Burrowing into the familiar territory