One who stutters
My family tree is trunked by Blaise. I hear
that name and picture him boiling across
the Atlantic, a matchhead fat and sunny gold,
or someone's comet, the thick roil streaming
from the turbulence of his shoulders.
Instead, did he just speak in my own
too-thick tongue? Just the way I stumble
grabbing for the greased monkey bars of consonants,
li-li-lilies chocking conversation's wheel?
Blaise: One who stutters. Someone thought,
staring at him newly born, he looked a stutterer--
the way he drew a breath, not ruddy-flamed, not bright
as a fresh fuse so quietly lit.