Tongue tied

By: Magdalena Mihaylova

A view from the apartment where the author speaks imperfectly.

What if the way I speak isn’t perfect?

Is my accent not sufficient for you?

My lack of street vocabulary 

or professional accord 

not convincing enough?

What can I do for your acceptance?

Learn to twist my tongue into shapes 

that are pleasing to your native ear,

your semantic superiority

smug in the face of such 

imperfect expression.

There is lineage in this curse,

history in the decision to adopt 

this linguistic discomfort in exchange for

love stories and oceanic odysseys,

the ferocious need for acceptance 

contrasted with the stubborn denial of it.

Do my contradictions threaten you?

Does your microscopic analysis of 

each word I shoot your way 

lessen the blow of what I say to you,

what are you even saying?

Perhaps a lover’s quarrel 

transcends the bounds of my

inadequate rebuttals 

in a foreign tongue.

I am tired of being so careful,

of living in imitation.

My chameleon’s skin is sagging,

begging to be shed, make room 

for more words, 

the charm in their interbreeding,

murmurs of second and third languages 

in sound sleep,

what time is it?,

indecipherable in the twilight hours. 

I’m no more a simpleton

than a polyglot,

a perfectionist where you are

a mortician of words.

Intelligence mediated by a critical ear.

The monkey dances in the circus,

ready to please her attendees.