Spanish left our family tongue a few
generations ago, it was buried
with my great-grandmother as she
tried to make her children more palatable

I feel it finding its way back to me
through the friends I meet
and the music with a beat
I can’t help but try to sing

I can’t help but wonder what stories
will never get to be told again,
so I’ll write my own in a book of
dreamlike tales and call it New Haven

They will find their way back to me
and I’ll carve them into
our family tree so my children can
learn to speak in rhythmic verse

and sing to the stars about
their whims and lost wars
forevermore.

Violette Taylor (she/her) writes to make her favorite tiny moments big enough for others to see. You can find more of her work in places including Southchild Lit, Journal of Erato, and PPlant Press Zine. She currently lives and studies in Paris. You can keep up with her at Twitter/Instagram: @violettetaylor_

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