My grandmother’s tongue is Pennsylvanian.
It squeezes syllables together
And slips ‘r’s in the middle of words.
Funny, dialectic words tumble out
To give local color to her speech.
“This hand tal is soakin’ wet,” she says.
“I better do the warsh.”
She reds up the living room
And notes that an empty jar is all.
I, with my everywhere ears and nowhere tongue,
And my words cobbled together from North and East, South and West,
And accent indistinguishable,
Listen to her with envy
And wish that my voice had a home.
– by Elizabeth M.