Photography by Pip Murphy-Hoyle

I never learnt my mother’s native tongue,

Three thousand years of history severed.

My tongue remains idle when you speak.

No matter how intently you stare,

The mouth won’t conjure a response—

Useless as a beak.

So, I’ll play tongue-in-cheek,

Or bite my tongue.

I’ll bite so hard it tears and rips.

The blood, this pointless flesh,

A reminder of your inaction.

Conjoined in the womb, 

Pushed from your hips,

Now all we can do is smile

With pursed lips.

A pilgrimage to our motherland

Hurts too much

When I’m surrounded by tongues like yours.

So, I’ll stay in this English-speaking world

You were so desperate to be a part of,

And leave our ancestral home to rest.

Cattle grazing in the humid air.

Syrup doused cakes.

Three almonds on the counter.

A cross hung on the cracked, bare wall.

Bees in the garden—those tomatoes,

Your pride and joy.

Never again.

You fed, bathed and clothed me,

So, excuse my greed—

I’ll bite my tongue

And suffer in silence.