(after years of unsuccessful psychotherapy)

                        Barbara, do you remember
the term:
                        “deaf and dumb”
— it was the way people
described them in our childhood — do you 
remember Judy’s parents?
           born deaf, who
           made those grunting sounds 
like a seal’s bark, 
like someone 
without a tongue —
in her throat hoarse, urgent —
and Fred,
                     who’d lost his speech
in an accident, who’d smile,
gesture to us, shake his head
                    up and down
then turn to Esther, touch her hands,
                while she went on throwing
her arms in the air, a little wild,
afraid he didn’t understand.
              Calm, calm, he seemed
to be telling her.
             This is what we plan to do.
                  See? Yes.
And she would settle down, get into
the car. And he would motion to Judy
as we watched; Judy, your friend,
who spoke like us, normal,
but who could answer silently to him
as well, her hands flashing 
those quick mysterious messages.

I remember them now. Their struggles
to understand and be understood.
Maybe they would drive all day and get
                      At night, in the hotel,
maybe Fred and Esther would caress, write 
on each other’s palms. 
He makes a joke and she 
understands. There is an odd, choked 
laugh. They make love and lie still.
                  And in the dark, Judy listens, 
imagining fingers that brush across 
the body like large, summer leaves.

I remember them 
                                these days 
because they are my inner family
telling me to listen, 
to gesture, to struggle, to go on, 
to live 
with these limitations I know 
I can never accept.