The Tongue

in my mouth is as fat as a cow’s tongue,

still I want to ask the woman

at the next table what she’s saying

into her phone. A tongue, a cow’s tongue

tastes like the rest of the cow. Cow tastes like

cow, an aunt once said in an accent as sweet

as Arkansas dirt. Someone, in English, told me

I don’t carry my vowels like anyone

they know. I’ve tried, but my tongue won’t move

like my aunt’s nor like anyone else’s

in my family. I ain’t makin’ sense, they’d say

if they were me. Why don’t I talk

like us anymore? Anyway    ...    Every other word,

the woman slips into English. The way a train window

trades a dead city for a dead suburb;

a posh row for a cow pasture. Duct cleaning, Thai Bistro,

all I can make out. I happen to love Thai Bistro,

raved about it to a friend — who’s never lived

in the city or eaten Thai food. He asked,

of some endangered animal? I have the tongue

of some endangered animal. No one can understand me

anymore. I’m the animal on my plate

that eventually mumbles in my stomach. Speak up!

What are you saying?! I shout to the woman

with my inside voice. Oh well    ...    A tongue

is a tongue is a tongue. I bet

the woman is talking about the weather;

or what she needs to pick up from the store;

or what to get __ for __’s birthday;

or __ said __ is coming to __ ;

or __ __ __ __ .