I Heard a River Downstairs
       

Half-formed words hissed to the surface
and tried to walk on land. Silver-scaled whispers
swished from the kitchen, fizzled

down the hall, and swelled
in my parents' room. For a sleepy moment
I wondered whether my teacher, Miss Simmons,

had slipped into our home—a mission
to correct my lisp. Repeat after me:
Sun. Sky. Sorrow. But this was summer—

No lessons, no drills, only the hush
of grownups deep in mysterious discussion.
I stretched my ears into points, strained

to hear voices that slithered and hid behind
the summer noises—crickets rubbing thighs,
bullfrogs burping in the grass, cries so shrill

fireflies throbbed. A few stray Ss, snatches
of my name, swirled like candy wrappers
in the current. Miss Simmons always said

I tried too hard. She claimed I had sibilance
already inside me, waiting. Clench your teeth
and blow, she instructed. But as secrets

splashed against my window and seeped
beneath my door, my head felt heavy
and I forgot where to put my tongue.

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Copyright © 2019 Jackie Craven All rights reserved
from Secret Formulas & Techniques of the Masters
Brick Road Poetry Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission