My brother was diagnosed as aphasic
after the crash. It’s the kind of thing that fazes
you, when you can’t teach your stubborn tongue what a phrase is,
can’t ask for water—just point to the hole in your face. His
doctor would pull the plug on his euphemisms, if aces
could be called aces, if what an injury like this effaces
from the dark convolutions of the cortex could be voiced. If traces
of my bedridden brother’s words could afford private rooms in these phrases,
I would fresco their blank convalescent walls with an elegant ekphrasis.
