Forty

my thumb and forefinger
trace spirals gently
above her blackened eyes
though she flickers like
a fluorescent light
so much is heavy inside

her lips move and pucker
though no sound comes out
her gaze flits from
left to right
her teeth gleaming wild

what is it, child? what
do you wish to say?
i try to massage calm,
like aroma oils,
into her forehead
to help words find their way

for a moment she stares at me,
straight and clear as glass-
hungry to understand, i hold her hand
so the moment does not pass

but the touch does not fire
as an encouraging, warm press-
perhaps her neurons are wired to detect
that a touch can lead to a mess

again, again, she squirms and giggles,
weeping sprinkled in between-
i sigh to the floor: if i she cannot speak to me,
how can i ever know her dreams?