They cracked Calvin’s fingers
if he used his left hand
or dared speak Acadien.
His children learn cher and haricots,
sentences only in toe twisting
Zydeco. His sister coughed out Cajun
in a bout of white death
studied Français Standard
and kept her dialect in check.
His granddaughter learns French,
then tries to listen, rewinds,
plays again, she can’t follow the
lilt, weave, or speed. She needs
to laissez the rules, mark-ups in red pen
–to learn her langue de famille, torn
from tongues at their root,
syllables intermingling, grammar
thrown into the bayou. How can she learn
with what feels like her left hand.
She lays her fingers flat on the table,
so that maybe, maybe she’ll understand

Claire Helakoski is a writer and educator currently living in Hancock, Michigan, where she teaches writing courses and acts as Assistant Writing Center Director for Michigan Technological University. Claire has an MFA in Creative Writing and a BA in Creative Writing and French Linguistics. Her poetry recently appeared in In Parentheses and is forthcoming in Thirteen Bridges. Her nonfiction is forthcoming in OxMag. She has taught many writing courses in many different spaces, and lives with her husband, two children, and golden doodle.