He was French-Poetry Africa

He was French-actually he's African from a small island Mayotte, of the Archipelagos Islands in the strait of Madagascar.  He was handsome and gentle I was intrigued by the language difference. I was hypnotized by the sound of his voice and delighted to have his attention. A romantic interlude, a pause or ripple in the pond. My gilded cage keeps people at bay and I keep myself well guarded among people I trust. He was different, from a different space and I imagined or believed we shared a common experience. Losing our historical selves and gaining our voices, as an African-American- Africa is deeply rooted and the distinct cultural connections remain buried, blotted out, and hidden in spaces I long to reach for. Not only where my ancestors were from, but also what language did they speak? Does that language still exist or was lapse in usage a burial for that tongue? Has my mother tongue morphed into another in a quest for survival? Could I learn it and stumble threw with embarrassing mispronunciations until I got it right? I wonder about this softly yet passionately as I attempt to imagine blotted out roots and branches of my family tree. Until then, English is my mother tongue.