Poem 46

From my days as a postal sorter …

( I particularly like up to their elbows in sunlight and wingbeat to fingertip … )

Sign Language

When she speaks with her hands she changes
the shy girl with the hearing aid
buys an orange for the deaf boy at morning tea
and changes entering silence his smile
like another room
                     she laughs
and follows him up hand over hand
into deaf green rainforest flickering
and swooping up to their elbows
                  in sunlight
a bird between them wingbeat
to fingertip
she forgets there's such a thing as hearing
tumbling into a tale of her Friday night
and suddenly I want to hold her
hold the bend of language throbbing
at her wrists lower her voice
fingers scratching whispers
into my palm