On ‘good’ days you stood in a sea of words,
arms powerless to save each wave
from washing further out of reach
the language which was your toolbox at work,
and a weapon in our home.
You railed and swore with fragments still conscripted,
half-laughing when invention replaced memory.
I’d meet you halfway, on the shore of meaning.
Perhaps the ‘bad’ days you have now are preferable,
when your mouth chews on nothing,
and your eyes are empty;
I prompt you in my head:
See, I cannot hold the tide,
not I, even I, with all my force.
Speak for me.
What shall Cordelia speak? Love, and be silent.