it starts with a stumble, a mumble,
lips fumbling in the dark air,
a sound that claws at the throat,
simple, heavy, raw with hunger.
mama, dada—easiest to say,
not because it’s love, but need,
the mouth wants, the belly aches,
and the world answers with a face.
sometimes a word like a jagged stone
emerges from nowhere, alien, bright,
“Worcestershire,” out of a tiny mouth,
an absurdity that sticks to the tongue.
and you think genius, you think wonder,
but really, it’s just the grind of life,
shaping them one syllable at a time,
whether mama or açai, it doesn’t matter.
the baby speaks, the world bends,
waiting for the next sound, the next step,
another word to make it all real,
but you know, it’s always been the same.