How many English words did my great-grandmother’s tongue
butcher before she was told to be careful? Be quiet.
When did she finally decide to let go of language? Surrender
to a world where phrases would never belong to her.
Once upon arrival, America served her a scalding bowl
of alphabet soup. Foreign letters spilled from mass-produced cans.
She missed the nourishment of her mother’s Avgolemono. Silky sustenance
of egg yolks and freshly squeezed lemon juice.
My great-grandmother continued to speak in a tangled river of Greek:
her words flowed out like slick fish. Incapable
of being caught or overcome by the tradition of silence.
She watched salty broth escape her spoon like lambs in rain.
The flock back home never cared how she spoke.
Communication now replaced by deprivation.
She attempted to consume syntax. But her taste buds burned
with every bite. She slurped to avoid choking on syllables.
She even tried to ingest bits at a time. But her taste buds burned
with every bite. My προγιαγιά knew
for language to remain alive
it still needed to be used.
Did she know her favorite chicken soup
likely made its way from Spain to Greece
during the Spanish Inquisition? Refugees fled
and settled throughout the Mediterranean.
Home became a verb, not where they lived––but how.
Immigrants crushed conformity like an eggshell when they whisked
ingredients into slow-turning sunlight.
Who said stealing people’s native dialect was less violent than war?
Caroline Laganas is earning her PhD in Creative Writing at Florida State University. She was a finalist for the Mississippi Review Prize and an International Merit Award winner in the Atlanta Review International Poetry Competition. Her poems are forthcoming or have appeared in Poetry, Five Points, New Orleans Review, Poetry East, Mantis, and others.
