I speak French⁣
Learned it young⁣
summers in Montreal,⁣
whispers of croissant and merci⁣
curling in my mouth like a song.⁣

I’ve studied Hebrew⁣
five years now⁣
each syllable a bridge⁣
to ancestry and prayer.⁣

I love language.⁣
The way words shape thought,⁣
build meaning,⁣
open doors.⁣

But fluency?⁣
Fluency I found elsewhere.⁣
In grams, in ounces,⁣
in net carbs and cheat days.⁣

I speak Diet.⁣
Like a native.⁣
Like a missionary.⁣
Like it was the only dialect⁣
that would keep me safe.⁣

I still know the calorie count⁣
in ¼ of an avocado.⁣
Still know the Points⁣
in ½ a banana.⁣
Still feel the accent⁣
of shame when I eat⁣
“too much,”⁣
“too wrong,”⁣
“too late.”⁣

Imagine…⁣
if instead,⁣
I had studied Spanish,⁣
Italian, Russian.⁣
What might have opened⁣
instead of what closed?⁣

What poems could I have written⁣
in a language of belonging,⁣
what love could I have spoken⁣
to myself?⁣
⁣⁣
What would I have heard⁣
if I wasn’t busy⁣
translating my hunger⁣
into guilt?⁣

A client once told me⁣
she could have fed a village.⁣
Another said she might’ve⁣
become a doctor.⁣

And me?⁣
Maybe I’d have been a polyglot.⁣
Maybe I still will be.⁣

But first,⁣
I must unlearn⁣
the only language⁣
that ever asked me⁣
to disappear.⁣


~ Nina Manolson