Mutter

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.