Shifting tongue

with no car of my own,
I rammed into her twisted front end
the moment of symbolic force,
to sort out which of us was

‘blind’: ire squealed in her patois,
provincial or parochial
—island talk—who cares which?

‘I’ve got two children in the car!’
as if a full house trumps a pair,
as if one’s honor is one’s haste,
as if the young must learn
to bark out insults in the streets.

Shifting into second tongue,
I met her halting screech,
the tired squeals of this absurd,
wee land,
where neighbors blow their horns
for different flags
and get to choose which signs to
disobey.

in my kitchen, I traced our paths again,
running over that woman
and her smug, myopic waste,
but now I wouldn’t swerve
from ‘I want to speak in my own voice.

I want to speak in my own voice.’
looking at you, I want to throw up
one finger
instead of two.