Acento Agudo

America took the accent out of my name and shoved
it right into my boca. I grew the muscle in my tongue
by exercising my Rs, lifting the weights of assimilation.
Two octaves lower than my Portuguese voice,
my mouth no longer sings soprano when I speak.
I’ve pulled doors when I should’ve pushed,
code switched to better fit myself into tight spaces.
Pulled prepositions out of a hat, let Google translate,
played with semantics. I’ve been my own harshest critic
until I realized that shame won’t teach me 
fluency. So I collected new idioms with the hooks
of my earrings, learned inglês como um papagaio.
Grew a new sense of humor, made sweet pies
out of sour limes I reaped along the way. I’m split
between two personalities inhabiting my body -
one for each language. An intersection of identities
where the lights constantly move between red and green
but never come on at the same time.