At a Loss for Words

My tongue is a strange place,

Malleable and musical,

Heavy and leaden,

The language of my oppressors occupies it,

The words are comfortable and easy,

The creolese of my people exists too,

But it struggles to flourish,

To find its footing, 

To balance pretending and pretentiousness, 

Much like I do,

But it is what I know, 

Most days, that is enough,

But some days,

Some days,

My tongue yearns desperately, as my ancestors did,

To return across the kala paani,

Where the words are dark and earthy,

Origins that are steeped in the soil instead of footsteps stamped on its surface

Endearments and curses both honeyed and venomous,

Revolution and resilience are their proverbs,

Jahaji bhai, jahaji bhen,

When did they begin to disappear?

When did your tongue reject your mai's lullaby,

Your pai's shouting as he walked in from the dusty roads,

The laughter, joy, tears, and despair of living,

When did your tongue forget the movements that once meant home.