Self-Portrait as a Hmong Speaker

Sometimes I slur my words, so many s’s 

sliding against each other like well-oiled limbs, 

slipping and slopping, slathered slushy.    Shit. 

          My mouth chases a faint expression. 

I remember sitting on the moist grass 

outside my uncle’s house, trying to catch 

the word for “vein” with my sister. We cast 

our poles into a sinkhole, retrieving air.

This morning, I stretched my frigid mouth to life

with la la la la la. La la la la la la la! 

Nyooob zoooo       nyooob zoooo nyob     zoo

           Zoooo siiiaaab txaaaiiis tooos   zoo siab   txais tos

Now, in this box, this metallic can, is it hot 

or is it just me? So many fish eyes glaring

expectation, perfection—wait, here’s a confession:

My Hmong sucks.