It’s a Mood
I want a surfer’s easy way of speaking,
sounds drifting from my mouth like
droopy helium balloons, yeah, man,
yeah, dude, it’s not your name I need
or even you. I want a French girl’s
vaulted ceiling mouth. I want to drag
my language over the sidewalk to stop
me from slipping on the tile. I tried
to train my handwriting once, sixth grade,
into the perky lower-case e’s of other
well-liked girls. I played with the dot
over my i. I wish I didn’t care how I
sounded. I would like to adjust that
part of my brain that lets in language.
I wish I could get my French back.
I wish I could get my inexperience
with French back and then learn it
again, Madame teaching us how to
say what we would like by saying
The Conditional, it’s a mood.