“Mother,” in Spanish, is “Mamá,”
and “lost” is “perdido,” and
“lost mother” is “urn in a crypt”
To which to sit and pray
in Spanish, a tongue I’m told
I can barely use. I shape
the words with my mouth,
but my mouth never opens
wide enough for her to hear.
Some tongues are built
for sorrow and grief, some
for joy or ecstasy, some
for declaring a will to live,
and if I had those tongues,
no matter how forked or supple,
no matter if the songs I’d sing
would praise or condemn. Mamá
had a gift for joy and a gift
for sadness, both of which
might dribble out of her mouth
at any moment the priests
allowed. The ghosts of words
still drift through my throat,
their tongues still buried
deep inside my heart.