If I could birth new language
Would I stick to the same contours
the same meadows I’ve wandered in
because I suffer obsessions with the
the swish of the ‘s’
the infinitude of the ‘o’
the softened curve of the ‘f’
the sharp points of the ‘t’
because we never lose taste
for our obsessions
Would I resculpt
and chip the same faults
that belly the expanses of my mother tongue
Taken by imperfection would I engrave them into tradition
Would I teach my lips
to curve the same
or yield them for efficiency
prime them for melody
Would I remember to put pen to paper
in memory of all those languages
solely exchanged on
the flex of lips
Would I let my language evolve
or would I cage it into dictionaries
and the thick lines of grammar
Would my language know
what tongue spoke it first
what tongue taught it love
held its hand through the connotations
pausing to see how easily fear
and anger
fit along the same edges
Would I let my language be spoken
by those who saw it as a weapon
saw my ridges, carefully defined
and saw bombs
Would I let them take my words
for their own use
borrowing words for their own languages
wrung dry
what lies on the ruins of words no longer spoken
what words we throw out with intention
casting them like long fishing lines
and which words we have to remember to push away
vestiges of times no longer
and which ones fade
the slow progression of
collective memory
Languages aren’t meant
to live forever
[Featured in Marin Teen Poetry Anthology]