At three years old, Charlie stuttered badly,
a cold engine, hesitating, stalling.
His Good morning created a gaggle
of consonants so drawn-out his older brother
behind a citadel of cereal boxes at breakfast
asked: Who taught him to talk like Porky Pig?
I despised my students that year,
the ones who pierced their tongues,
hammered barbells through flesh,
sucked metal tacks on the roof
of their mouths, making slobber
and airy lisps on purpose,
while daily our blameless boy, sentenced
to the hard labor of language, his face
flushed with the effort of Hello,
chewed the cud of repeated sounds.
The speech therapist advised patience
with what can be a passing phase.
Don’t finish his sentence.
Ignore his impediment.
Give the horse his head and he’ll race free.
What was predicted came true.
Loose reins unleashed
the great gallop of speech.
