My brother didn’t speak until he was five.

Didn’t read or write until twelve.

I’m writing this in the lee of my truck

on our midday break in a field of yellow asters.

There are parts of this story that can’t be told

without hurting someone. How to listen to silence

from within silence. My brother’s

two year old son holding my hand,

pointing at flowers and trucks.

When we read a silence

we change it. I can’t tell you

what it’s like to be outside language

inside language. The tall grass at the edge

of the field makes shapes

in the breeze. My brother walking open

the big aluminum gate. The metallic-blue

damselfly nodding on my knee.