Mother Tongue

Laura Forsey

We don’t speak Gaelic here anymore.
I think it died
with my grandfather’s grandmother-
But who thinks to record an absence?

No one presses lost words into the crust of a pie
to feed hungry children who say “thank you” in Canadian English,
or braids the coastline of the Hebrides
into their daughters’ hair.

I dream of my twice-great grandmother
words fall from her lips
to land on a dusty floor
her eyes are cool and deep as the sea
before she turns and walks away.

The One Good Selfie.jpeg

Laura Forsey writes free form poetry about the short, stolen moments that catch your breath. She currently lives in Ottawa, and would consume poetry and novels instead of eating if she could. This is her first formally published work.