This all becomes intriguing, as these things are.
Listening to couples speak in different languages—
which consonants are abundant, which sounds
I can’t recreate with my lazy American tongue.

But I try, bending it back further than I ever have,
folding it in half until it’s touching my tonsils.
I flip it over, loop it into a water slide,
let the new sounds tumble out in delight

kicking up waves and losing their swim trunks
along the way. They barrel out of my mouth
red-faced and quietly embarrassed. I learned

to whistle when I was seven, a whole week
of pursing my lips, rearranging the furniture
in my little mouth, hooting in frustration like a sham.

I was told to imagine my mouth was full
of peanut butter, the kind you had to mix yourself,
heavy and gritty. Or to actually eat peanut butter
and the crusts of all my sandwiches
which would be instrumental to my success.

Pretend you are kissing, wet your lips. Press
your tongue against the fence of your top teeth,
no the bottom, as if your tongue had
a bigger kid behind it, stealing everything from its pockets.