Let Her Speak

Let Her Speak
by Gideon Burton

I waste my words, encumbering thought with flesh,

all mashed in glottal mush, the meaning pressed

against the palate and the jilting thresh

of time, occasion, cues mistook or guessed--

She speaks my name as though to keep the air

from bruising it, as though upon her tongue

it lies, a flower petal thin and rare,

and any extra syllable, though sung

with grace, would loosen filaments or cells

and leave a shredded shell, a noise profane

and blank, no longer sounding down the well

of mystery, a label, fixed, inane. 

     My libels thrive on every breathing wave;

     she calls me once, and all my words behave.