Anniversary
His raised hands
flick people into existence
and scatter them
like constellations.
In American Sign Language
I am a single star
above his head, looking
down at the years
that pass inside his fists
rotating around each other,
almost orbiting, except
to sign year his fists must touch,
signaling closure, unlike
the real universe
where distance expands
every year, between
moon and earth,
between earth and sun,
between our sun and the next
nearest star, four light years away.
You are the interpreter
who designates my position,
who plots me in constellations
you’ve created above your head.
You’re the one who will leave
me suspended in the room
after everyone has left.
Remember the night
I reached for your hand
in the bar? Men stood nearby
and you pulled away—
taught me the body speaks
without a voice,
taught me how to sign
my name, S-T-E-V-E-N,
the shape of a punch
that hasn’t been thrown.
My name is flaming
meteor. I weave my thumb in
and out of my fist
as if seeking
the safest place
for impact.
***
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Photo by roujo/Flickr
Very tender with great word choices.