Thunderhead
Devon Balwit
From your wheelchair,
you point at the budding thunderhead:
“That’s nice! That’s a nice one!”
Your other words are stuck deep inside,
speaking become like a stalled birth — the urge to push,
but no crowning.
In the midst of a sentence,
you fall silent.
“I have the word,” You say
gesturing to your tongue.
“It’s there but can’t come out.”
We grope for you —
“difficult?” “strange?” “a name?”
“No!” you say, waving us away.
Again you begin,
but can’t escape the lacunae.
You find the cloud instead,
and make us turn to admire
one thing you know for sure.