The Taxonomy Of A Broken Tongue Poem by Durman Matsiko Troy

There is a quiet,
devastating curfew
happening in our mouths.
We don't notice it at first.
We navigate our days in a borrowed luxury—English,
mostly—polishing it until it shines, using it to pay rent,
write emails,
and order lattes with just the right amount of casual detachment.

We treat our mother tongues like family heirlooms:
beautiful, heavy,
wrapped in velvet,
and safely tucked away in the back of the closet,
brought out only for weddings, funerals,
and long-distance phone calls to grandmothers who wonder why our vowels have grown so sharp.

But if we aren't careful,
our languages don't just fade;
they become taxidermy.
Curated artifacts.
Museum pieces with little white placards reading:
"Here lies a syntax that once knew how to beg for rain..."