The Shape of a Word

There’s a way the tongue bends,  

folds like paper into origami shapes  

whenever I say "tomato" instead of "tom-ah-to."  

How a single vowel can open  

a door or slam it shut.  

In classrooms, they taught us language  

was a bridge, but no one said bridges  

often come with toll booths or gates.  

No one warned me that dialects  

can be passports or handcuffs.

My grandmother couldn’t say "thorough,"  

rolled her R’s like a secret she couldn’t keep.  

Her accent braided the past into the present,  

made songs of syllables I flattened  

into obedience in school halls.  

We split ourselves like kindling, inch by inch—  

which side of the river did you grow oen?  

Was it petrol or gas? Sofa or settee?  

We wore our words like badges,  

or buried them with quiet shame.  

Each phrase I utter becomes a fingerprint,  

a map of where I belong and don’t,  

a quiet chord strummed between  

acceptance and misunderstanding.  

Even silence becomes a shibboleth.