My mother made a slick decision when she was 9 months pregnant.

Denying the wishes of her gentle husband;

Spitting out words from her own tongue, 

Never borrowing those from her predecessors. 

I would not be French,

She did not come from France,

My father’s family, too, a stranger to French land.

Yet, I carry with me a tinge of a French identity 

Buried in 5 letters, merely one syllable.

 

Pushing myself forcefully into the language of my lineage

I’m stretched over two syllables

Three if extended further into the realm of foreign endearment. 

I was born with thin cautious skin,

tinged with splotches of melted milk chocolate.

But, under my tongue is a thick secret. 

The milky stew of 2 continents: 

The thick roll of a constant and the compressing of the harsh ones

Meshing with the light curls of a whispering tone.

 

I’m a borrowed mix of signals and cues, 

Clear and bright like the sun, 

Dark and cloudy like the snow falling on an early March morning.

Passed down like an heirloom, I’m a collection of crests; 

Welded to the surface of an intruder’s breastplate.