Langue Pochée

dad said wash your face     you have buttons

    stop bouncing around up there

  you’re obsessed with games

 why you don’t study

     always finding a briquet

   in my brothers’ coat pockets

poches poches poches and poches

 my langue

          bien pochée

                     you fumes hein

no

    this

 more beacon than lighter

i      the city of d’accord

                         a flowing djellaba

            my uncle’s voiture

    from st louis to saly

               attention

   you eat too fast

  why you don’t relax   you eat

like cochon

      dad tried to give us

                 himself

   in english rek

    maam

  nangadeft me

      but i didn’t know

whether i was here

      or there

a whole langue

 pressing down inchallah

 on the black skull

    a little black france

    a little black portugal

 phonetic hell

  washed up with speckled

 fish carcass

     sandy crescent

   dusty fez

that flattening waalo

je te jure was a sound

   like a sneeze

 or a cough

    before i found it

   slinking across the page

dad on the phone

  the whole house

 ringing with waaw’s

   and nakawakërga’s

 and we were always

  there

   there

    there and   too much jàmm

that jamaican asked if

  i was ready

 fi ñaam

     some fulfulde

  must’ve kept that sacred word

      rammed under her tongue

     waiting till the cane was bien coupée

  the sun incapable

of beating

dad gave up

   on his sourates

 alif alif alif

                     his mother made him

    a gris-gris for his final exams

  he said no    we are tested

on the greeks