I want to read a poem.
I can't remember the last time I read it.
But at dinner tonight, of all things,
someone told me that she wrote a poem about a deaf-mute
just recently.
And I have a poem about a deaf-mute.
If you ride the L in Chicago--
L is an elevated train--
you often confront the deaf-mutes
selling their little cards, which are alphabets.
And the idea is to get a quarter, or so,
from people on the train.
And I got one once, and I read it.
And that's what this poem is about,
receiving one of these things, which is called the American
Manual Alphabet.
And there's also-- there are some more titles here,
a deaf-mute education card.
So I wrote a poem called "Hand Signs."
On the subway, I gave a quarter to the deaf-mute
who handed out the deaf-mute education cards.
His hand closed on the coin like a wink,
some secret understanding between us.
Across from me, a woman, who had studied--
who had studied my glance like an anchor of light,
smiled at me and removed her glove, revealing a naked hand.
I didn't know what to make of it, so calm,
a hand set free, unlike those on the deaf-mute's card.
On it was the American Manual Alphabet, one language
for the entire world.
Alongside the alphabet were hand signs
for common words and phrases.
The tips of two index fingers touching,
meaning "friend," as if with that simple formation,
we were to remind ourselves of the continual flow
of flesh and pulse towards the mutual flood of need.
The eventual appearance of the entire hand
blooming insanely like a flower on turbulent waters.
To express the idea of good, how easy, a thumb pointing upward,
fist held like a chalice against the sky.
Artist contemplating his subject,
knowing if that word can be expressed faithfully
and simply, there is no need for the painterly images
of truth and beauty.
And for bad, the small finger held out,
easily confused with the sign for the letter
I, frail, unsteady, skeptic, testing the wind.
The man standing in front of me almost
fell as the train screeched and jerked.
I saw his eyes close, and the knuckles, turning white
as he gripped the steel post, seemed
to stare out like eyes trying to burst through flesh.
I turned my eyes away, toward the woman across from me.
But my glance fell without effort
toward the calm hand, the hand set free.
And I thought I saw a faint white circle of flesh
around her ring finger.
On the mute's card, I saw another circle,
the sign for perfection, formed by the curled thumb and index
finger, the shape of the world, the eye, a common stone that
keeps rolling to maintain its shape and symbol,
the hole through which ideas slip away,
against which we press our eyes, like children curious to catch
a glimpse of the other world.
I knew I wouldn't say anything to her.
In the middle of the card, the word
"Mary," two hands held together.
A prayer so desperate, it turns into a grip.
A few stops later, I noticed she was
gone, glove lying in the aisle.
Bored with myself, I looked at the back
of the card, a list of days to fly the flag upon,
from New Year's Day to Thanksgiving,
and a quote from the Pledge of Allegiance.
How many of us had placed our hands over our hearts,
as if a sudden pain had rendered our words useless,
as if we were practicing some plea that by the gesture
itself, some deaf-mute would come to us,
take our hands from our chests, and place them
against his cheeks, over his lips and eyes,
until we understood every patriotic occasion took
the form of a face?
And the silence of that awareness
asked itself to be broken by those of us who could sing,
who could almost sing.