How do I describe
that when I first mumbled “mama,”
they didn’t know if it was English or Chinese

How do I describe
that it’s a futile search
for what sounds my lips first molded to,
what language first constructed my thoughts,
when I am still finding my definition of “first”

How do I describe
that it’s neither
fork nor chopsticks
feeding me morsels of sound
that fuse on the heat of my tongue

That I don’t detach my tongue and switch to a spare
like one might a screwdriver or a wrench
But my words do rust,
they tarnish and crumble
when I no longer forge their shapes
And when I try to reassemble the syllables,
they become screeches of metal on metal,
ugly to my ears
clumsy between my teeth

That sometimes I call my mom over the phone
and forget how to cry in Chinese,
fluent in “anger” and “sorrow”
but not in nu and ai
She begs Merriam Webster
to relay her daughter’s voice,
but I know
and she knows
we’re searching in different dictionaries,
and the shelves between us only grow