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