this much I retain
a smugness of tongue
pores augmented to
particular frictions
of phrase
resonant taut
frenulum linguae:
my fine flesh spine
rooted bottom-mouth, is
finessed in tricks of
banana-fruit custom.
Unearthed twice,
seeds of heritage soil
were vacuum-packed and
undeclared
to ensure ease
of naturalisation.
Despite the sojourn through
the Singlish ‘lah’
ruby saplings
harvested from my mouth
carry globules of
Dravidian authenticity.
Thamizh ponn
the hard edge of the ‘L’
should subsume into
infinitude
curl instinctive
against the palate like
beetle-nut leaves or
Hubba Bubba.
The double-N
‘girl’ sounds softly
but deep
like the goodness of
Brahminical
propriety
it is imbibed
with assurance.
I enunciate
with perfection
as though
sweaty backs are
being slapped
concrete verandas
cooling and
good young girls
combing afternoon oils
into auspicious brows.
(You speak so well)
I wax naïve,
oblivious to the
philosophical peaks
and credos
contemplative in
the insinuations
of a language
born of sages
now kept
in store-bought pots
beneath the mantle,
contained for private adoring,
my sea-locked tone
is strung fraught
in tight swallows
it remains thus,
rooted-bottom mouth
and disguised
in tricks, of
banana-fruit
custom,
resonant taut
frenulum linguae
the fine flesh spine
this much I retain
Originally published by Peril magazine as part of the 2017 Queensland Poetry Festival edition, ‘I Can’t Speak To You’
NITHYA IYER 