A lesson in the Apparently Personal for you all.
Stammerer
I see her on her horse boldly golden in the Cyprus sun
riding the complex rhythms of speech in the sweating stride
of a canter and feel the marked absence of sun on my back
as we walk headlong towards each other; me going one way
you the same, then back again. These steps, for a moment,
seem like a way to make my point: that words just escape
before I'm ready sometimes, that they force their way
out of context. Meanwhile, in my constructed memories
of then, my mum is learning word games
she'll later play with me, coaxing consonants out of repetition
through repetition, chasing red lorries and thicket thrushes.
I never wondered before where she learnt so many,
never caught the smile saved for my own miraculous speech.
My first radiator, delicate and confident, would never have betrayed
its intentions back then, when every word was meaningless and free.
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