I can speak without my voice.
If I want to, I can use
my mother tongue and still
speak anguish, my second language.
Our diaspora survived.
Stumbled over deserts of death,
stammered across waters.
Spoke English haltingly.
My grandparents taught me
how to translate stress
onto syllables, articulate Armenian
accents into American syllables.
They didn’t stutter to spot
those who also grasped language
like a second chance
to clasp and not let go.
Armenian cracker bread broken
in pieces, like parts of speech.
Staples to hold onto for life
as immigrants must.
Four invisible voices traveled
across the world en route
to a fruitful San Joaquin Valley,
so happy in their new country.
They spoke no anguish, only gratitude,
as they strained over each strange word.
It is only the unutterable
language, the anguish,
they left to me.
