I.

My father worked to erase the South Side from his salesman’s tongue, gently but insistently corrected my brothers and I  as we grew. The thud of the hard D replaced by the buzzing digraph of TH:

Them not dem

Those not dose

The hard AH tilting the mouth sideways turned to a softer rounder AW: 

Chi-CAW-go, not Chi-CAH-go

In 1991, Saturday Night Live aired the first iteration of “Da Bears” sketch. I watched Mike Myers, Chris Farley, guest host Joe Mantegna don that accent as a punchline. My father had known thirty years earlier what they now mined for laughs—the accent was ripe for mocking.

II.

I pledge allegiance to my musculature, my disjointed state of disrepair. My blood flag. My nerve anthem. Isthmus of nose. Archipelago of age spots. Hail the cracked joints, the bone spurs, the torn tendons. The blurred eye, its floating speck of storm. Lakes of bruises. Rivers of night sweat. Body I hate I need I shun I nurture I hate I pamper I hate I need I need I hate I need I need to love more. Body that carries me. Body of multitudes. Body of declarations. Body dependent and independent. One nation under damaged skin. Sweet land of flab and accidents—land that I inhabit. Of thee, I sing.

III.

degenerative:

grated gear //vintage grievant//riveted vine//enraged gradient

tender edge//tiered revenge//inert and raving dearie

renegade train//reneged range

envied grave

IV.

On my last night with my father, death loitered in the corner like a comedian in a cheap suit, mocking us, dragging out the punchline. Wrapped in my dad’s favorite Chicago Bears blanket, I slumped beside his bed, close enough to hold his hand, to watch his breath catch and fall. On the television, Pitch Perfect played on low volume, and I watched the mouths of the singers press into bilabial stops, buzz into digraphs, circle into rounded o’s. There was nothing left to say. What was waiting had erased all language from both of our tongues.