Verse 'n' Veil

My tongue is a guerrilla fighter
in the war against assimilation,
each rolled ‘r’ a battle cry,
each mispronounced ‘th’
a bullet in their perfect prose.

Grandmother’s voice echoes
in the chambers of my mouth
like smoke signals rising
from a burning dictionary—
her words, war paint on my lips.

They say: speak proper English
I say: watch how improper
blooms like bruised flowers
in the garden of my speech,
thorns and all.

My accent is the last standing
soldier in a conquered country,
refusing to surrender its music
to the empire of eloquence.
Listen: how rebellion tastes

like mango and cinnamon
on a tongue that knows
the price of translation,
how resistance sounds
like home spilling from my mouth.