Little bursting words my mother tongue, the tongue of my mother the tongue of my father, the tongue of my child and the tongue of mine. it's there, on bloody pink, bubbling toothpaste-coated tips on violet broken stippled edges on ridged touchy slippery cavernous domes, right there. stripped naked of familiarity, so doused in anglo-saxon speak, dripping with its oily odour words ending in pretty, twisted little knots of american-girl lingo. mother twirls her kurta-skirts and