your voice is completely devoid of an accent 

he said.

the linguist, rendered confused.

unknownst to him, 

it was a craft I perfected

never again would an ignorant somebody

lump me with any particular group 

now, there is pride in my cadences 

pride in the soft lilting melodies of 

my mother tongue and the harsher rhythms of 

this language I did not choose but have learned 

to accept. 

English, always, will be glass shards in my throat

Polish is dead wildflowers begging to rise up again and 

take me home but 

these days i have no one left to talk to 

so 

this voice, devoid of an accent, becomes thin with worry 

heavy with lust

deep with sickness and 

will render everyone confused, always