Two poems from today

My Mother Tongue

like me, was born

in Mississippi

where a form of middle

English is spoken

if not taught.

The mud eaten by some,

but consumed by all

flows in the water

and our veins

flows in our words

you caint understain’

The dialect

I refuse to write

refuses to leave me

refuses to quiet

for every language

 is foreign

every poet

is deaf

so why not mine?

Why not me?

Now let us speak

of important things

love, death, and pizza

when the April wind

blows the blond mane

on the golden brown horse,

when the wild flowers

pink and purple and yellow

cover the roadsides.

Cold wind over the green,

green fields, down old Sage

and back up to the springs,

air too cold for swimming,

makes me hope

I live long enough

to get back to my love

and her warm pizza

coming out of the stove.