by Elizabeth Meade
SEP 22
When I Stutter by Elizabeth Meade
Sometimes, m’s elongate,
grow long tongues to taste the last bit
of breath my body has to offer.
Sometimes, i’s echo
like the harsh cries of a seagull,
try to fly far away from the nest of my mouth
only to circle the ocean of my uncompleted sentence.
Sometimes, my breath becomes caught
in the chamber of my throat, my head cocked back
until the word —at last— launches out of my mouth like a bullet.
or a punch.
(Sometimes, my soft, raspy voice
provides no balm to soothe the ear.)
Sometimes, I remember Daddy said my voice
sounds like Mommy’s. I rejoice then, as syllables
trip over one another like eager children
rushing toward the playground
with all the freedom her voice no longer has.
All that remains is the deep ache in my throat,
vocal cords like mud stomped flat
under the feet of my rowdy utterances.
