Etiquette

I am eight, sitting at my grandmother’s  

kitchen table, trying to ask to be excused.  

My cousins Jennifer and Danielle watch 

my open mouth, keep sounding out 

“Can…I…be excused” like I don’t understand  

what I’m supposed to say. They don’t know 

that “can” is a word I sometimes can’t say,  

like “hello” when I answer the phone, “goodnight” 

when my dad leaves my room, my name

when people ask it. They don’t know  

that when my teachers’ eyes search the class  

for an answer, even if I know it I look down.  

They don’t know that my consonants fly away  

sometimes, like birds when it gets too cold.  

I stare back at Danielle’s mouth, Jennifer’s mouth,  

Oma’s mouth, trying to figure out what makes 

talking so easy for them. Maybe my stutter  

will go away when I get older.

People on the bus, at the supermarket,  

in the candy store always tell me about their  

cousins and sisters and brothers, older than me,  

who once stuttered like me. They’ve out-grown theirs,  

and I hope mine will disappear one day too, so I won’t  

miss so many cartoons after lunch.