I first found its cadence
in fifth grade health class,
defending Shannon from the boys
who chuckled when Mrs. D said
puberty causes hair growth and proudly
pointed to her arms, as if the lesson
were a scavenger hunt. Folding in on herself,
an origami of ridicule, she cradled her elbows
searching for sleeves to pull down.
My condemning tone was her only cloak 
against their scrutiny.

The seeds of our mother tongue 
were planted here, middle school
a community garden. We sowed
trust with a “check me?” before rising
from the desk chair, buried spare tampons 
beneath the contents of a pencil case,
proud to lend when asked. But
our language is now forgotten.

Now, we ask if we are bunny pretty deer pretty
fox pretty or cat pretty, if we are not pretty—
be honest, how can I glow up—if we are cool
summer, warm autumn, clean girl, quiet luxury,
the new answers to “check me,” the many more
yet to be invented, the trends I wish we would rebuke.

---

Harrsch, Blake. “Mother Tongue,” Corner Pocket. Seton Hall University. April 2025.