For S.,

by Ellen Bryant Voigt

this girl who is

twisting her lovely face to tell me –

something, her body is

rigid with

language, under her pink blouse

her shoulders

stiffen, her left

hand jerks out a

rhythm to sing by,

the vowels clog her throat, the

improbable consonants won’t

come, she

pauses,

a phrase,

a sentence a whole thought

tumble out on their own,

she tries to catch that tide of language,

then hangs

on one

word, she

labors

for speech,

past inadequate body,

past the rural scene

of the window, past the beasts

busy with lunch, the flowers tied

to the field, each a separate

cup of juices, and the stones

with their mouths sewn shut.