You feed me this English,
until my alphabet soup as a child rhymed,
it kept time,
ticking on my teeth,
a metronome in my head,
all the time,

Constantly,
Endlessly,
Consistently,

poem after poem was given to me,
extra helpings slapped onto my plate,
all night,
every night,

poem after poem,
word after word,
line after line,

until I recited the thing in my sleep,
until the words twist my tongue at night,
until the ghost in my mouth talks and walks and bends and mends

giving me the pentameter and the form,
more and more,
until I have so much,
but that's not enough,

reciting couplets and phrases,
rushing through my veins
pulsating through my capillaries,
but always skipping past my heart,

you read me Whitman and Eliot
on busses and trains,
all day,
every day,
thinking that I enjoy it,

talking of mice and of men,
of people,
of places,
thinking that I care,
that I'll remember,

and one day I'll feed someone else the English,
tell them no dessert until they finish it,
and you will tell me that it is good,
weaving the words into their brain,

until all of it sounds the same,
word after word,
bending, mending, twisting, twirling
whirling through our brains.