golden mala – for B
it’s been four days since you

left your voice, carried off

in the flood of the stroke

along with upright movement

down the left side
green of your irises does the speaking now, flashes

signals of intensity, sign language of head movements

a nod when asked if you’re sleeping ok, no when

asked about pain

your right hand in my left, a golden mala

wound around your forearm
your absent voice hovers in its case of the past, its

clear low tones resonate in auditory recollection

its positive rush, deep tender handling of words, patient

cushioning as it carries a thing of wonder out from

its wet chamber into air
your voice would never have cut anything

into silence out of spite, it moved with a current of faith, now

that you have resigned it that reassurance is assigned

to the pulsing grip and release of your hand

in mine
so we move into learning how to read all

over again, redirect all focus to facial

each movement a new link in the connection
ignore the strangeness of a room neither

of us have been in before, with its curtain in

front of the door, its unopenable window

the flame tree outside holding a single magpie

stone blue sky, solid with water, bag of amber urine

hanging off this side of your bed
probably the last your partner says

you move nothing in response