Mother Tongue

Folds in an ancient
fuselage

orchestrate

an arrangement
of accents.

Each accent is an accident.

A moist white shirt
like

a waiting moon

sways into oncoming
traffic.
_______

steps crumble new as ruins,

parked in yellow weeds
a folded marble

envelope;

a narrow breeze

of orange
crush.

Muslim and Christian
born

of a singular mother tongue
torn like

early May.