Stilled Life With Fig Newtons

Today I speak neither
of my parent’s
first languages.

I did speak
Italian, my mother’s
tongue, until I was five

and sent to school.
Lost the ability 
to speak it, although

I still understand
a bit, as long as my mother
is speaking. 

As for my father’s language?
Gone; tossed upon
a boarding school’s trash heap;

can’t even pronounce it
when I see it written
as I’ve never heard it but once

in a reservation store
on a visit there; someone
was looking for Fig Newtons,

the only words I understood;
I assume he found them. 
I didn’t stick around to find out.

My only authentic voice
speaks nothing but English:
all my truths must be drawn

in an occupier’s medium,
a colonist’s artifact. How I work this
when I feel so robbed by history:

strive to turn the tool
toward mastery of the house
where I live. There must be words

I did not learn
or have forgotten
that I can reincarnate if I try,

and I must try. 
Tired unto death
assuming that there must be

enough words already 
for all I know
when I can’t even

speak the full truth
to myself which is all
I’ve ever tried to do,

the only reason
I write, the only reason
I’m still here.