【by Aisha Shams】

My mother says, everything that we have can be taken, and what can be taken, will.
She speaks many languages, but she was never taught how to say “no” in even one.
My mother’s accent is gilded, songlike, lucent and thick.
With every word that rolls off her tongue, she creates palaces and rolling hills.
But her mouth is a graveyard of all the things she cannot say in a tongue
that trips her everytime she attempts to walk.
She speaks Bangla,
Home of peace, reunion, and clarity,
the language people fought for.
Where love is reformable, forgiving.
She can speak English
This foreign language
This bideshi bhasha
And yet she hesitates, staggers, and kneels before this language
Because it insists that her seasoned words are a mark of inability
How do I tell her that she is a creator?
She is a chef, scientist and teacher.
How do I tell her that her words are enough?
They are heavy with the azaan ringing in the air,
They are heavy with her mother’s sweetness and her father’s prayer.
They are heavy with turmeric, jasmine, and coconut oil.
How do I tell her that she does not exist to impress this world?

When I was younger, I would spread my arms far and wide
Look how much I love my mother!
Look how much I love you, mother.
You are the only language that lets me grieve.