When I see you I find myself suddenly
stricken with Broca's aphasia, usually
caused by a lesion, the kind doctors
don't see, eroding your neural structure
by rubbing your thoughts raw and painful until
you wake up one day and the only thing you can say
is "Arthur" or "Tracy" or "Seth" or "Charlene"
or whatever your name is. I've said it
and said it until it's just syllables;
there are no other words that I need now
to express myself. For everyday speech
I can use hand gestures, or write you poems,
or trace my words on your skin (if you like)
as people with Broca's aphasia do.