Speech Lessons
Troy Varvel Boy who can’t speak, unable to send sounds from mind to mouth, sto-- Boy, who sees the girl, riding her bike with a white basket, gliding downhill to her house, red and blue streamers dancing by her side; where he so desperately wants to be, if only he could spe-- Boy, whose tongue is the ship’s plank, where words walk to fall, pushed from his mind, sounds stumbling around and around, jumbling syllables, unfulfilling, like the spaces between his fingers but he can’t extend his han-- Boy, who watches her fall, sees streamers strangle in spokes, he knew it would happen. How many ways did he think of telling her she cut them too long? Stones embed in her knees like words embed in his tongue. His voice is unwanted by the world. Boy, who walks the pla-- her falling is his fault. Lamentations on Speech Therapy I believe more in shattered letters and broken voices than smooth starts and silky lies like you’ll grow out of it. Exhale slower, my therapist says. Weave yourself into the sentence. I deflate my puffed cheeks and fill dry lungs with watered air. My tongue stays plastered behind coarse teeth, lips puckered for a sentence I’ll never kiss. My eyes drain as she finishes my sentence for me. I want to plant her voice in my palm, listen to it sprout lettered leaves and stems of unbroken sounds. I could open my hand to speak when harvest comes and stand beneath the orange glow of the moon, dig my voice from the muck and clay of a stuck larynx, swallow her fallen letters, and wait for the roots to crackle through my chords. |
About the author:
Troy Varvel holds an MA in English from Stephen F. Austin State University, where he currently teaches as an adjunct instructor. This is his first publication. |