The new neighbors have a son
who only knows numb sounds
and dull
drums.
We play together. He speaks
sign language. I am learning,
(for him).
He asks me to tell him what his
mama’s voice sounds like, if it is
crisp or
gentle.
Cold or quilted. I scour for words
with a temperature that will not
burn like white light
in our hands.
I tell him, her voice is honey stirred
with real cane sugar into earl grey tea.
Soft, patient,
still.
His eyes illuminate, clapping in the
monkey-with-cymbals way children do,
gives me four hugs
in a row.
In his opinion, my future lies in
re-writing dictionaries
for the kids like
him.
He signs,
Blythe, I can hear it.
I can hear it
in my tongue.