I
We each
are loved
according
to our own aphasia:
the
global disutility of Wernicke,
the
deep emptiness of dasein,
the
stuttering joy of Broca,
a
dynastic legacy of neural
missed
connection, a toolkit
of
malaproposition, a jangling
orgy of
wrong.
II
It’s
all accident of touch--
a
probe, slipped, a skull scissored
by the
privilege of a pale ghost
whose
every brutal oops
morphs
easily into discovery:
your
tragedy is my
glorious
contribution
to
science. Now shut up
and eat
your peas.
--Lael
Ewy
