Inka-Chincha jar with human face and corn feet, 1450–1532 CE. Photo by Ernest Amoroso, NMAI.
There’s nothing I can say in my own tongue, with my own tongue, within my imagined memory. I have a sugar cube clenched between my teeth for the glass of tea my great-grandfather’s ghost needs. The bitter taste of what I can’t say: it’s not appropriate; don’t. So I’ll use my oldest silver to borrow a cup from other poets, beg a mouth to speak. How I’d spit sugar, appropriate their heat to warm my dead beloveds.