It Comes from Having a Body
When I was a child I stuttered with the violence
of one thousand wings— the flock in my mouth
could not escape.
God says be BUZZARD! Be a new baby born
with teeth— be a curl or a tide or a half-girl half-bird—
be transformed— be Harpy.
I drove my mother’s forever postpartum— sorry was the hardest
to sputter— the savage wings— the tongue ticks
flapped and fought but one day God
said SUN— and God said good morning, child— and I said
hard T Tuesday. The first time I did not stutter, mother held me
for one thousand seconds— the birds
flew from my mouth cave like wood smoke and I did not know
that I had almost killed her— a body will wait
for the very last moment to act.
Sometimes God says YAHTZEE and I know this means
someone has won but someone has lost too— A holy man
is a gambling man, and that God of ours,
he takes bets after all. Once a mother’s baby drowned at home,
and God said, hello— the baby knew the wet of something—
the sink of the same— he sank like the sun
— an orb of stutter— an entire candied peach. A baby body
can be a poem too— can talk to God and want truth
or deep water all the same.
Did you hear the news— my soaked soma cannot stop stammering—
it will not pull a fluid stroke for the life of it— it will not slow
enough to tally. This body is searching everywhere
wet for love and real. God says BUOY for it. Body says how
so— God says flap to float and Body says brilliant.
It comes from having a shape
that won’t rest for anything but soothe and flare
when God is so near— that has to make all the art
and read all the words and love
all the men in an effort to know what God wants from
a body— what God wants from offering
a moment of flood or wings.
What God wants from a stammer poem by any woman
with a story— from a body begging for last call—
from a current pulling down and out.
God says kiss me— a body says what’s at stake.