I tried to un-ghost the wilting tongue,
the half-lit voice of my elders, vying for fluorescence.
It blossomed elsewhere but I was young.
Lotuses of language floated along
communities too alien to me. In my defence,
I tried to un-ghost the wilting tongue,
attentive when we’d visit. It sizzled among
anecdotes, an untranslated loop when
it blossomed elsewhere and I was young.
I struggled to untangle songs
like polyglot knots and notes on conjugating tenses.
I tried to un-ghost the wilting tongue,
curving my mouth to nurse the syllables all wrong,
the verses rising and falling into obsolescence.
It blossomed elsewhere but I was young.
Gone is the guttural obstacle between loved ones
and the nostalgia I’ll never hear again.
I was too late to un-ghost the wilting tongue.
It blossomed elsewhere. I was young.