They had taken her tongue,
the barbar of barbarian,
and boiled it into jam.

The imposed imperial pronunciation
takes the tang from tongue,
sweetened, and served with
custard as sub-species subordination.

Now the shape of my mother’s tongue
is filling my mouth, its bitter roots
sharpen along the edges
struggling to swallow partitioned peace.

The refined annunciation as instructed:
‘stair, hair, care’/‘stare her, cur’
‘tri-colour’/‘trick-colour’
‘both sides’/‘tiocfaidh ar lá’

The spaces between
stanzas are where
my father tries
to speak but cannot;
a level silencer,
so whatever you
say, say nothing.

I make room for this triskelion tongue,
articulate and taste the venom
of a spoiled crop, a spoiled lot.
I hold these shattered
fragments like jewels, speaking
stones speaking under me.
Here the sparks and starts
of a stranger’s tongue are three-form Morrigan
lamenting, like Caoilte,
for the passing
of a Gaeilgeoir
and to flavour
its rewilding.