Sydney Lea

But-Cept

I recall not wanting my oldest son
To quit saying upslide down. The charms
Of children’s speech can’t be gainsaid.

His little brother, told to behave,
Would shout, “I am! I am being have!”
My own little brother’s been gone for an age.

Who used but-cept for except as a kid.
The shock of his death at 36–
Well, I still may see some random person,

Who in speaking displays a facial movement
That brings him back– then sends him away.
That blighted young man, I don’t need to say,

At one time was two young parents’ baby.
I’ve lived both long and, it now seems, quickly.
Our grandsons and -daughters have their own locutions,

Endearing, beguiling. I’d like to lock them
In place until I’m no longer here,
To have their childhood argot endure,

Language a means to wondrous reference,
Not to what’s aptly called a sentence.
There’s pleasure of course in what I recall,

But-cept wistfulness suffuses it all.

Author: Sydney Lea

A former Pulitzer finalist in poetry, Sydney Lea served as founding editor of New England Review and was Vermont’s Poet Laureate from 2011 to 2015.  In 2021, he was presented with his home state’s highest distinction of its kind, The Governor’s Award for Excellence in the Arts. He has published twenty-four books: two novels, six volumes of personal and three of critical essays, and sixteen poetry collections, most recently What Shines (2023) His latest book of personal essays is Such Dancing as We Can (2024). His second novel, Now Look, was published last month.

 

Plume: Issue #92 April 2019