My grandmother tells me you need a good tonguein life, you gotta show love with it, you gotta demandlove with it. In the same breath she reminds meof the benefits of drinking Ovaltine before bed,how remembering to heat my milk first is key& I tell her                                      yes, I know. Like a promise,like a prayer. I do not tell her how oftenI hold my tongue, I do not tell her I cannot find Ovaltinein my local markets. I only tell her yes—                                                                                is that not what it meansto show love with this tongue, to lie for her sake? Her joyis so dependent on my insistence that I am in the kitchenevery evening dressed in garlic & onion & oil. That I wakein the mornings to incense smoke & god                                                                                                  on my tongue &I do not tell her about the heartbreak until it is over. I tell herabout cut flowers I buy myself from the grocery store,how they’ll sit on my table for weeks, mimicking lifeeven though they’ve long died, brittle bones on the brinkof collapse, until I remember to take them out with the trash& then I do it again.                                              I cannot keep plants alive, it is a testimonyto all I did not inherit from my grandmother, her hands so eternallywed to earth. Her South American soil birthed vegetables, nurtureda livelihood. I believe her body is bound in Guyana in a wayit could never be bound in the States. I wonder oftenif a part of her                           is already buried there & when her legs give outfrom a fall I think, yes, it must be. Yes, fragments of herare scattered about & calling on me. Some days I breatheher in more than others & when I pray it’s her voice,not mine                                that echoes in my apartment.When I leave my partner of six years, I apologizefor choosing myself over us, but if I am to demand lovewith this tongue, I cannot swallow myselfwhole for anyone else.                                                             When I visit home,my grandmother asks me about marriage,about children, & I tell her not yet. Rememberwhat you told me about getting my education?How no one can take what’s inside of my head?& she says                                                                          yes, I remember.But her hands tremble & I know she wants to give mea wedding before she dies & I know, she will not be ableto give me a wedding before she dies so yes,                                                                                                  I lie to her.I lie about Ovaltine & the plants I’ve killed & the loveI left because                                                              I am too muchlike her. A woman so bound by what she believesshe must do that no one but the gardens she’s tendedhear her cry & I want to ask my god how muchof that land is salted with her tears but I refrainbecause god will not tell me & my grandmotherwill not tell me & I cannot show her these handsI am trying to build a life with, how they are so muchlike dried up riverbeds, like barren soil because weare nothing if not withholders                                                                                 of loss.