Halting Speech

I read Cyrillic and I fracture
French; can find facilities

in Germany and Greece; know
just enough of folkway and odd

song to make a wedding
bearable, an amble worth

the time. I have a stamp
collector’s knowledge of Swiss

mail, and fiscal Portuguese.
It’s just my English—this

you know—devolves to utter
stutter as I face you past

the pepper and the salt; turns
slur and cipher: semaphore.