Speech Impediment by Miki Byrne

I am not a silent poet

It sticks in your throat.

A lump too big

to be chewed down.

No spit mustered

for this unpalatable gulp.

I see it occasionally,

flitting through your head.

Banging at the back of your eyes

when you think of what you did.

You got close once,

began a short hiss.

Snake like,

sharp in its nipped-off syllable.

Then the word died.

Couldn’t be forced

from the airless cavern

of your mouth

into the atmosphere that hovered,

like a glass wall.

Impenetrable from your side,

open from mine.

You never tried again.

Never wanted the forgiveness

I would have wrapped you in.

If only you had said ‘sorry’.

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