English is my second language
I
English is my second language—
You already know that,
Yet you still laugh when I say
Sheep instead of ship
Which sounds similar to cheap,
But those mistakes are rather
[ɪksˈpɛnsɪv]
II
Sometimes when you ask me
“How are you?”
I stand there hypnotised
In the middle of a deserted road in
Ça va bien
Then I take a petit détour down the
Estoy bien
To finally arrive at
I am fine.
III
You think I’m a slow thinker.
Sorry—do you think I’m a slow thinker?
Because in my mind there are thousands of
Switches and buttons and levers
Which I try to control
When my tongue is not
on automatic mode.
IV
When the English teacher calls my name,
I know it is my turn to talk.
But I stand there,
in the middle of a deserted road in
J’ai rien compris.
I find an English shortcut down
I have nothing understood.
But end up at
I understood nothing.
That didn’t sound natural to my teacher,
It only sounds natural to me.
Next time I’ll just respond;
I don’t know.
V
When I asked you for
Una manzana
I meant the sweet, red, round-shaped thing
That falls from trees.
No, I didn’t ask for an apple,
For me that’s just the drawing of a manzana.
VI
Sometimes in the mornings
I get close to you—
So I can smell your flowery eau de toilette.
I linger over your shoulder for a while;
You smell better in French by the way.
VII
You love taking me to Paul’s bakery
Just to hear me say croissant.
When we went out to a bar or pub,
I would order piña colada;
Your ears always stuck to my lips,
You said you liked the sound of it.
VIII
Those days are gone;
Now you get ashamed
When I forget a word.
You avoid taking me out
‘Cause I might forget how to say
Te quiero
And claim I’ve lost my track of thought.
Now, you get mad at me
When I don’t speak correct-o,
Yet I have warned you
I am not perfect-o,
Because I always tread lightly
Among the borders of my memories.
So don’t tell me I am not proficient,
Because I am fully efficient.
IX
Last night, you came back home reddened,
You screamed at me… in English,
Of course, little did you know
That only Spanish can prick my skin
With a thousand needles,
Only Spanish has the sharpness
To cut through my flesh,
And yet, you saw my blood drip
In English.
X
You can plaster my face with papier maché,
I don’t care,
You can even draw a moustache on,
Why not?
But before it’s my turn to talk
Give me a minute to unfurl my tongue
And match your tone
Let me turn the switch back on
As long as the English air can flow
Through my Mexican lungs.
XI
Therefore I have three voices
One to love, one to talk, one to attack
One to cook, one to smell, one to act
At times, I fill them all in my mouth
Like spicy-chocolate chicken crêpes.
At times, I keep the three of them locked
In a safe; to be safe from the shame —
Until I forget where I’m from,
Until I forget who I am.
At times, I forget them all at once.
A useless mouth,
Empty of morphemes.
And I stay there hypnotised
In the middle of a deserted road.
