by Kevin Carey
In grammar school I stuttered,
felt the hot panic on my face
when my turn to read crept up the row.
Even when I counted the paragraphs
and memorized the passage,
I’d trip on the first or second word,
and then it would be over,
the awful hesitation, the word
clinging to the lining of my throat
rising only too late to avoid
the laughter around me. I was never
the smartest kid in the room,
but I had answers I knew were right
yet was afraid to say them.
Years later it all came out, flowing
sentences I practiced over and over,
Shakespeare or Frost, my own tall tales
in low-lit barrooms, scribbled
in black-bound journals, rehearsing,
anticipating my turn, my time,
a way of finally getting it right.
In grammar school I stuttered,
felt the hot panic on my face
when my turn to read crept up the row.
Even when I counted the paragraphs
and memorized the passage,
I’d trip on the first or second word,
and then it would be over,
the awful hesitation, the word
clinging to the lining of my throat
rising only too late to avoid
the laughter around me. I was never
the smartest kid in the room,
but I had answers I knew were right
yet was afraid to say them.
Years later it all came out, flowing
sentences I practiced over and over,
Shakespeare or Frost, my own tall tales
in low-lit barrooms, scribbled
in black-bound journals, rehearsing,
anticipating my turn, my time,
a way of finally getting it right.
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