Aphasia

Suzanne Morris

May 18, 2022

–for Patricia and in memory of Jim 

Beautiful word, like a 

term for a symphony movement 

or a ballet score 

say it aloud, the 

stress a gentle arc floating 

above the center 

and you’d hardly know 

you were instead 

describing the man’s 

tortured effort 

to seize the word 

to advance his story– 

what his life had been like, 

how he came to be sitting here– 

as we talked for a while 

after worship last Sunday;

his crisp enunciation 

of connecting words, 

the earnest gestures of his hands

as he worked up to a 

chapter’s end, but then– 

Silence. Hands lifting up, 

then dropping to his lap. 

The man would shake his head,

half smile in apology, 

start over, 

only to be blocked 

just short of destination, 

his mind pawing blindly at the air,

then shaking its fist as 

the all important word 

escaped him yet again. 

He was aging in a handsome way,

dark hair parted up the side, deep

inroads of distinguished gray 

eyes aglow with hope like 

altar candles lighted 

for communion 

but then– Darkness. 

At length, I bid him farewell and

rose to be on my way: 

his torture had become my own.

Now I shape this poem

from my

repertoire of

words 

to tell of someone 

robbed of them. 

So many dancing  

on the tip of my pen,

each haunted by the man

who prayed in vain for

one.

A novelist with eight published works spanning forty years, Suzanne Morris now focuses largely on writing poems.   Her poetry is included in the anthology, No Season for Silence - Texas Poets and Pandemic (Kallisto GAIA Press, 2020).  Examples have also appeared in The Texas Poetry Assignment and The New Verse News.