The boy at the mall says his name
in a polished foreign accent.
He swallows his words in a rush,
not giving his palate the time to relish his roots.
It sounded bland.
Accent, is the shadow of language
but his doesn’t mimic his origin;
there isn’t a residue of ancestry in his mouth.
His tongue cannot call his name in the spirit of his tribe.
Like an ancestral compass crested on your tongue,
a name is the star guiding you home.
There is a longing for custodians,
we need new mouths to carry our tongue
