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on a flight between
sun and winter,
i watched sign language
up a couple rows,
a pair spilling
toward each other—
aisle seats—
her calming him,
him not one to fly,
her sign language voice
i gained an eye for.
in a gallery, too
two people threw
signals back and
forth, a painting
here, a brushstroke
there, not jasper
johns but faster
motions, larger
gestures, ardor in
art, as i
mumbled to myself,
i unfold my inner
voice and tell it
to move its hands.
fingers
fold and fly
like paper cranes,
with each crease,
i wonder the signs:
what's a scream,
what's a desire,
what's a scolding,
what's a tangent,
a more-hands sandwich,
what's a song
without an ear, just
joint-bending stanzas?
"watch."
that's what all
the signs mean
to me.
i know not
a deaf one's
ear, only that
those who hear
near those who
speak are not
always such perfect
pairs, but you and i
just might be,
because i am one
who does not hear
and you are one
who does not speak,
wish
you voiced
your thoughts
wish
you spoke
my language
wish
you laid
here, so we
could translate
with a thumb-clasped
embrace,
wish
i could have
my hands on you
to tell you sorry
for not listening
to tell you i love you
for all you say,
and a final
hand-speak act,
i'd cup my hands
around my ears
and have them
listen:
to that
silence,
those
hands,
sounding-off
you.