For some reason, this old poem must out.

Verbatim

Convinced that you can make me speak
You fire first, one word questions,
As if brevity might startle
An answering volley from me.

I will not evade your voice—
Cutting, caustic with frustration.
We are not lovers claiming
The strange false language of
Gesture and telepathy
Which passes for communication
And this is not a passionate dispute.
Two weary people, one wanting conversation,
One clearly not conversant.

Perhaps you realize now,
Harshness moves me faster toward escape,
The habit of an only child wanting nothing
But to be excused from her parent’s stern table.

You command and I bring the OED:
A solid, a concrete, weighing me down
To the business of speech.
You start the drill, I try to pronounce
Cincture and scythes and In hoc signo…
Each word awful and disjointed.

You become something close to patient
At my embarrassment, rolling the letters
Along your lips and tongue until I mimic:
Ink, finger, tincture, cincture,
Letting the words become mere sound.
And I think the story is simplest this way.
You find me silent. You offer language
Word for word, letter for letter.