A POEM A DAY

I wish speaking Spanish was like making tortillas
Something I could do after watching
my grandmas hands from afar
before trying to form the dough in my own

Was it ever supposed to be easy?

How much time
do I give
a language to rise within?

After years of studying,
I tried leaving my voice
in the bowl on the kitchen counter
of my childhood.

Nothing changed.

How can one language
carry the sounds of
belonging
and
envy?

I’ve asked every question
asked of me
By Spanish-speaking folks
who demand to know
Why hasn’t Spanish
rose within me
like the ancestral
promise of my name?

I have the answers:

I spent my whole life
biting the guilt on my tongue
And now,
only my fear is fluent.