Sign Language
By C Perricone
I've never heard
A word in my life,
Or know what 'heard'
Actually means.
Words for me
Are the motions and shapes
Of the hands,
Like the ones
That cast the shadows
Of bats and ducks
On the bedroom wall,
Of the arms,
Rowing, climbing,
Ambiguous in their sleeves,
Of the mouth
Gaping silent before
A mirror alone.
When I can't
Think of a word
I never hold my head
Or close my eyes.
I take off my clothes.
I search the skin,
Its rolls and folds,
Its dimples and definition,
Its hair, et cetera…
Hence words can be colored,
Smooth and milky,
Spotty, flaky, or firm.
But words are not merely
A pantomime or dance,
Showing off pictures and moods
One at a time.
They're not a spirit or
A film that lifts off a face
Like a mask...
Lately I've had surgery,
Trying to invent new words.
I now have fingers
That swivel and crook
Back and forth,
My arms swing like a doll's.
I've even added tattoos
To my belly for emphasis
Studded and festooned
My nipples and nose...
I understand how
Each word hurts,
Understand how east and west
Are the same direction,
Now embrace myself
And you at the same time.
I understand how
Every word formed
Has never been said
Before or will be
Ever… uttered again.
