Speech Therapy Candidate

Bring me your coastlines of sound,

the ancient coves wherein song

becomes word. Son, I read you like a text

written on my skin

and yet your silence insinuates

where for you the tide charges like white horses

where the small conch snail is a glyph of delight

Bring me perforating symphonies, sinewed

with your truths

bring me your hooked consonants, an apostasy

of vowels

bring me numbers echoed out of order

bring me babble like a bag of spare parts

we will assemble the engine of speech

Let the whole foal-voice come stumbling up

the paddock knock-kneed in the shushed

psalm of starlight