I'm Denice Frohman,

and this is "Accents."

my mom holds her accent like a shotgun,

with two good hands.

her tongue, all brass knuckle

slipping in between her lips

her hips, are all laughter and wind clap.

she speaks a sanchocho 
of spanish and english,

pushing up and against one another,

in rapid fire

there is no telling my mama to be "quiet,"

my mama don't know "quiet."

her voice is one size better fit all

and you best not tell her to hush,

she waited too many years for her 
voice to arrive

to be told it needed house keeping.

English sits in her mouth remixed

so "strawberry" becomes "eh-strawbeddy"

and "cookie" becomes "eh-cookie"

and kitchen, key chain, and chicken 
all sound the same.

my mama doesn't say "yes"

she says, "ah ha"

and suddenly the sky in her mouth 
becomes a Hector Lavoe song.

her tongue can't lay itself 
down flat enough

for the English language,

it got too much hip

too much bone

too much conga

too much cuatro

to two step

got too many piano keys

in between her teeth,

it got too much clave

too much hand clap

got too much salsa to sit still

it be an anxious child wanting to

make Play-Doh out of concrete

English be too neat for

her kind of wonderful.

her words spill in conversation

between women whose hands are all they got

sometimes our hands are all we got

and accents that remind us 
that we are still

bomba, still plena

you say "wepa"

and a stranger becomes your hermano,

you say "dale"

and a crowd becomes a family reunion.

my mother's tongue is a telegram 
from her mother

decorated with the coqui's of el campo

so even when her lips can barely

stretch themselves around english,

her accent is a stubborn compass

always pointing her

towards home.