Mutter
By Mark Levine
There is a brand of play called muteness
Beneath the play yard’s interlacing branches.
It appeals to children born
Entre deux guerres, whose specialty it is.
It is mutiny; that is, a tongue
Of foreign origin ending in grunts.
One such child uses his tongue
On a frozen fence for the embrace of it
For the mutating appendage makes of speech
A combat; an internment.
There is a brand of child assisted to the play yard
By his keeper fussing with his zipper.
Yes, it is cold in the high hemisphere
And nothing will be the death of him
As he sets hard sweets on his tongue
He neither chews nor swallows.
Such children can never swing too freely
From the elm’s loping barkless arm.
It is mutual. There is smoke on the air, tarry,
Commuting the industry on high
As the children simmer within
Their word-cloud.
And someone or something is calling them home
A familiar voice, if they have one.
Copyright Credit: Mark Levine, "Mutter" from Travels of Marco. Copyright © 2016 by Mark Levine. Reprinted by permission of Four Way Books, www.fourwaybooks.com.
Source: Travels of Marco (Four Way Books, 2016)