Langue Pochée
dad said wash your face you have buttons
stop bouncing around up there
you’re obsessed with games
why you don’t study
always finding a briquet
in my brothers’ coat pockets
poches poches poches and poches
my langue
bien pochée
you fumes hein
no
this
more beacon than lighter
i the city of d’accord
a flowing djellaba
my uncle’s voiture
from st louis to saly
attention
you eat too fast
why you don’t relax you eat
like cochon
dad tried to give us
himself
in english rek
maam
nangadeft me
but i didn’t know
whether i was here
or there
a whole langue
pressing down inchallah
on the black skull
a little black france
a little black portugal
phonetic hell
washed up with speckled
fish carcass
sandy crescent
dusty fez
that flattening waalo
je te jure was a sound
like a sneeze
or a cough
before i found it
slinking across the page
dad on the phone
the whole house
ringing with waaw’s
and nakawakërga’s
and we were always
there
there
there and too much jàmm
that jamaican asked if
i was ready
fi ñaam
some fulfulde
must’ve kept that sacred word
rammed under her tongue
waiting till the cane was bien coupée
the sun incapable
of beating
dad gave up
on his sourates
alif alif alif
his mother made him
a gris-gris for his final exams
he said no we are tested
on the greeks
