Winner of the 2010 Bishop Prize in Verse
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The Citizenship Test
He says he let go of the word.
It shook away from the coils
of his cuttlefish tongue, left behind
a Greek prefix and slithered
into the creaks of textile foot pedals.
I tell him he might fail the test.
I passed mine because my mother taught me
how to shed when she held scissors in hand,
kissed the top of my head and cut.
My black hair fell to the floor.
But he smiles with his cranberry eyes
(he will pass the test), offers me
licorice and I tell him to keep it.
He might want it after we cough up
all the words we can only mouth,
nothing fragrant left to taste.