You excavate anything that has tried to lodge itself
in your body without permission. You bury the toothbrush
against your right molar and scrape and scrape whatever
you find. Loss makes you feel all the other losses.
Eleven years later when you no longer eat pizza
or speak Spanish, when your father’s silhouette invades
your clenched jawline, you borrow his brisk gait,
his snort, his face. People say you look white.
Your father never does. The restaurant won’t seat
you. The hostess says neither of you meet dress
code (your father wearing a double-breasted suit).
You are a man trying to roll your r’s. Where did
they go? You are still trying to excavate the sounds
you once dreamt in. You hardly remember your mother
tongue. You are trying to pull something useable from
the wreckage. It all feels familiar. Your best friend
compliments your clean pronunciation. The way you have
learned to let go of everything you once called home.