I was stunted 
before I was begun,
shrunken 
before birth.

When they pulled my father
from his reservation and family
and sent him to the residential school,
half of my tongue fell away.

When my mother stopped speaking
Italian and insisted on speaking
English only, the rest of it flew
from my mouth and vanished.

I learned to speak
through stray winds stirring
the anguish I held inside,
I shaped them and called that my voice.

So when an editor tells me 
that I need to say less,
that I need to depend on the audience
to understand what I’m trying to say,

I say that there isn’t enough meaning
in English for that to happen,
and if I overspeak sometimes, 
that’s just the ghost pain talking.