TONGUE IN MY MOTHER’S PERSPECTIVE Madeline - Lincolnshire, IL Flutters. Glistens wet like a cicada wing. Something buzzing, hidden behind the teeth. Here, the tongue curls its mianhae’s, bows under its mothae’s, and we say mispronunciation has never been so graceful. But American tongues are sharp, restless things. They like drowning syllables, or slicing names down the center, yolk oozing from the wound. When Americans speak, their mouths are full of our mul. Our names. Your name. Yours, daughter, thin enough to be both a wing and a blade. Here, we don’t need to care for America. Grandma’s living room is so warm it is almost inside of us. Here, we’ll sit in a circle speaking bad Korean, playing hwatu, and listening for the wisps of our ancestors’ laughs that
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slip wetly, like wings, against our cheeks.
