The poet has not spoken since the stroke
except through gestures he shares with his wife
who helps him to compose his current works

by reading facial ticks, knowing his life
has shaped the lexicon within his mind
and through a shared glance, she becomes the scribe—

chanelling his verses, plucking lines
from mutual silence, where the most is said.
Just like the poet, she discerns the signs

says them aloud, marks if they make the grade
to know if that constant other approves.
Some may argue about who really made

these poetries and seek to know the truth
about the author of these lauded works.
But anything that’s truly born of love

is born of one self, made when two hearts click.
Just like my grandfather, who lost his sight
around the time my grandmother was struck

by a final malady, and yet despite
her absence from the material world,
he felt her presence still by his bedside

and felt her reproach when he drank his fill
of whiskey for his non medicinal needs,
and heard her voice still echoing through the halls

“The liar, he can see better than me!”


1 Comment (+add yours?)

  1. peter litton
    Aug 17, 2012 @ 09:31:20

    If it weren’t for the complexity of human relationships and emotions, poets would just write about trees. Not a tree in sight in this poem.


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