The Stutter Poem by Chana Bloch

1
We speak too fast.
The child sits at our table, waiting
his turn. The clock
points a sharp finger. The daily
soup steams,

too hot to eat. Between
words the child thrashes I-I-I —
Our patience

takes a deep breath.

2
That high voice — all clumsy fingers —
can't untie
the shoelace fast enough. The master of the house
is counting. The hurt
voice circles
over and over, blunt needle picking at an old
blocked groove.

3
Years ago in a high chair
he drummed wet fists, his face
a knot: Give me
words. The fury
beat in his throat. Mother and father, we put
words in his mouth, we

speak harder, faster, we give him
a life to chew on.