Poetry
"Mother Tongue"
By Cheyenne Marcelus
By Cheyenne Marcelus
My mother tongue is at the mouth of the
Mississippi and she sings the blues and
spews blessing oil. 102 miles north of the
coast, she grows collards and turnips. She
rears six chickens and a rooster. She is an
entrepreneur with a husband who pays the
bills. Her money is for the grandkids, the
collection plate, and the biweekly press-and-
curl.
My mother tongue has a drawl. Like y’all
and finna and ain’t God good. Ain’t she
beautiful. She is nurturing and steadfast and
don’t take no shit. She soaks her beans the
night before, and there is no such thing as
unsweetened tea. She doesn’t sit her purse
on the floor. She doesn’t spare the rod. She
doesn’t miss a Sunday.
My mother tongue is the sound of fresh
flowers and neatly folded napkins, honey
baked ham adorned with pineapples, five
inch heels and coffee-colored pantyhose.
She is soprano on Sunday and alto on
Monday. She sings blessings or curses
according to the occasion. She yells PUSH!
or Hallelujah! or Don’t shoot! according to
the occasion.
My mother tongue resounds. From
Mississippi to Chicago, she resounds. From
generation to generation, she resounds. She
is Harriet, and Fannie, and Sarah, and Nina.
She is Ruth, and Gussie, and Dorothy, and
Jeannie, and Barbra. She is my mother today
and daughter tomorrow. I whisper her name
and shatter a mountain.
Mississippi and she sings the blues and
spews blessing oil. 102 miles north of the
coast, she grows collards and turnips. She
rears six chickens and a rooster. She is an
entrepreneur with a husband who pays the
bills. Her money is for the grandkids, the
collection plate, and the biweekly press-and-
curl.
My mother tongue has a drawl. Like y’all
and finna and ain’t God good. Ain’t she
beautiful. She is nurturing and steadfast and
don’t take no shit. She soaks her beans the
night before, and there is no such thing as
unsweetened tea. She doesn’t sit her purse
on the floor. She doesn’t spare the rod. She
doesn’t miss a Sunday.
My mother tongue is the sound of fresh
flowers and neatly folded napkins, honey
baked ham adorned with pineapples, five
inch heels and coffee-colored pantyhose.
She is soprano on Sunday and alto on
Monday. She sings blessings or curses
according to the occasion. She yells PUSH!
or Hallelujah! or Don’t shoot! according to
the occasion.
My mother tongue resounds. From
Mississippi to Chicago, she resounds. From
generation to generation, she resounds. She
is Harriet, and Fannie, and Sarah, and Nina.
She is Ruth, and Gussie, and Dorothy, and
Jeannie, and Barbra. She is my mother today
and daughter tomorrow. I whisper her name
and shatter a mountain.
