Sixth grade taught how to twist tongues
into thoughts but my mother says
I learned to lie, not that she would know
and when asked if my tongue was tied, she denied
the accusation, the one time I wasn’t trying
to place blame, promise—
but won’t swear—and words
never carried the same, weakened
by hollowed-out bones
in pinky promise fingers
snapping under endeavors to talk
and nullified words now only twist
syllable-sharpened daggers in deeper,
forgive me, I didn’t know
it was murder
I forget how to walk when focused
on someone else’s pace, watch their form
and try to equate the tilt of their hips,
the swing of their hands
to mine and I rush to right
myself, repeating steps I remember
as a child, settling to study Humanity for Dummies,
a cheap creation of artistic
imitation and my mother comments
on craftsmanship and products made in China,
but I was pieced together
in America—a walking testament
to an empire’s decline
in quality, equality, I’ve lost
my equity, my mother
would be so disappointed
Left wondering when dead horses will beat
again, and maybe it’s procrastination,
but is it mine or God’s, and I’ve languished
in the empty space of an answer long enough
to forget the question, now I wonder
if he dreads his role as a father
as much as I learned to hate
being a daughter who can’t
speak