The Time That Passes

The time that passes between my mother and me
is more measured in what’s not said,
and plain words are felt like samplings of fabrics.

Body, she said, we never said body then,
it was too bold, we said system:
tell the doctor what part of your system hurts.

I linger,
hold onto the feel,
the rub in the mind.

If they left it alone, Mike said,
and someone got hurt, then they’d be blempt for it.

I hold onto before, before our
tongues were twisted around corrected speech.

He was so grand he couldn’t say Okay,
like the rest of us,
he said Oh Kah.

I ranted that we’re educated into ignorance,
but can get jobs on the mainland
or at radio stations,
our voices do sound so homogeneous now.

But you watch it, my mother said,
it’s your tongue too that was dipped
in the blue ink, and do go leaking iambics
all the day long.

© Agnes Walsh