native speaker

this language is laal.
no this language is chomona.
no this language is red.
red red bloody mouth. all
dying languages made prey
caught in the teeth. a prayer
before my lips could make
a sound. this language is red
as the tongue fleshy frightened
feeble the only muscle i know
how to flex & it can’t carry
a damn thing except all this
history. when a language dies
the last words to go are the colors
when the lady on the bus tells me
she doesn’t see color does she know
she is killing something between us? this language
is red laal chomona this language is red as
lineage: my mother’s worry / my father’s patience
the words that can’t describe either but we still

try. this language is dead like every day we destroy
it & make it something new this language
is red like the fire in which
it burned this language is red as rebirth
this language is spoken
it is not read

i am standing in the kitchen
with six native speakers
of gujarati & i find
none of them know
how to read & write the language
it doesn’t exist anywhere in this home
except between our laughter &
behind our teeth