More daunting still

At the bottom of my bathroom sink, six ants hustle then wait in vain
searching for a way out. I feel like that often. Scratching around for
the familiar; in vain retracing steps to the mother-land-tongue. In
dreams I don’t need clothes and live in a waterhole where fish and
birds, mothers and fathers speak to me clearly and I to them. We
bridge each other. Awake I am bereft and language is especially of no
help. Thoughts swell gathering toward breath but the words shrivel back
yet unformed. I stare at you mama, mama, mama, waiting for a word
to bring me closer to you, wishing for the time before parrots ate my
tongue. Longing is a long dark corridor with no windows. Esophagus
leads to stomach and its pit bulges surrendering to the aching reach of
what we’ve lost. The hoarder fills drawers with socks and when all
the drawers get filled then fills garages with televisions, lawn mowers,
towels, sweaters. Anything. The ants want to return home. I do too.
When in darkness I find the Rosary sometimes helps. Vanity even so.
Oh pernicious, malicious, delicious Vanity. What will it be?
Raisin Rage or Mexican Rose on my lips this morning?

Originally published in Catalyst. Copyright © Claudia Castro Luna. Used with the permission of the poet.