Bought a diploma in
dialects to hang on my wall.

It offered a choice
of silver or
gold frame,
or plain,

or engraved.

It weighs far
less than a lifetime of
adopted mother tongues
(hell, there’s
more words on my rum bottle.)

It arrived from
a more third-world
production setting,

so many rolls of
the R and
archaic phonics bending.

My home address
dyslexic jumbles of madness
and hashtag-padded
bubble wrap;

blind yous
and eyes and since when
don’t silent syllables come in
taciturn envelopes?

This is supposedly
my thesis but
my knowledge is treasonous to
titles bestowed two
thousand miles away.

This is
my doctorate,
rubber galoshes for
those uninitiated
in rain;

a literary
Auschwitz I’ve
legitimized to find
some positives in
the worst

so I can become
a candle the next time
my preambles get
lost in

the dark.


One thought on “Colloquialisms

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