Tired of crying in CNGs

Every word I write is contemporary 
My pain is urban
My troubles are suburban
My lungs are black. 
When I speak 
My tongue catches on the words,  
In a language I have forced myself to think in. 
So I am rural, to the other side of the sun
Uncouth, brown, dirty
Dry hair, dark knees. 
I cannot pronounce “conscientious” without slipping and sliding and spitting. 
I am both country and suburban 
Literate and illiterate enough, 
To get ravaged over and over again
And marvel at the lack of crows in my city. 
Ayra Gahar occasionally contributes to Star Books and Literature.