Amá irons her tongue                Bracing herself when she puts a knife to her lenguaCuts it—                Delicately serves it to me for breakfast with a side ofEggs. When she was a little girl she didn’t                Fear language or having aGay son. The only way to keep surviving is to keep                Hiding in America or byImagination. She gathers when is left of her tongue, goes to the                Jacaranda trees she passed by the park each day. SheKneels beneath the indigo shade & buries the remainders of her tongue. Amá knows                Loss more than love these days—how even her name no longer sounds the same.Mexico behind her, always. Now her grandparents & father                No longer have a mouth to call her name. Amá is not aNiña anymore but a mujer who has come to America to                Open my mouth & feed me her own tongue so I can be twice as strong.Please, I don’t want to. I say.                Quivering Amá opens her mouth to maroon coming down her face,Reminds me there are things in life you can’t take back.                She hands me the fork & knife. I slice her tongue intoThin pieces, dip it in ketchup with my egg. I down every bite                Until there is nothing left of her on my plate. Inside me I feel her tongueVibrate whenever she gets asked if she knows English. At night pus runs rivers of                Xanthic inside her mouth. She cleans it with a shot of vodka.Years later I’ll dig for scissors in a sewing kit, I’ll stand in front of a mirror, I’ll draw a                Zigzag line with a pen on my tongue, I’ll snip it out & open Amá’s mouth to give her                                                                                                     the words she’s been holding inside all her life.