Out Loud
Oct 18 2008


Saying it out loud
the words are given-up to the world,
irrevocably;
hovering between us
in heavy black letters.
My voice
sounds disembodied
as if it comes from someone else —
breaking
forced,
running short of breath;
feeling hungry for air.

They say you should read your work out loud,
revealing the music
the imperfections.
But some things, I think I’ll never pronounce.
My tongue,
that used to dart and flick
and tantalize,
is numb
thickened.
My supple lips
are a thin pale line.
My mouth goes dry
and the words stick.
I hear myself stutter
then fade,
looking away
as the hot blush rises.

A man should be stronger than this,
unafraid of words
taking charge.
But this, I keep inside,
as if proclaiming it
would make it permanent,
and far too real.

I recite poems, instead.
The final word resonates,
then a pause
and it’s gone
thinner and thinner,
winging its way out into the ether.
In the back row, a muffled cough.
Some shuffling silence;
polite applause.