YOUR HANDS, KATHLEEN

They lift off the flight deck of your lap
when you begin to talk.
They sweep and soar between us,
gather and roll the air into whirls,
almost laughter.

They bless yourself in the Hindu manner,
divide you neatly right from left
then, wrists lifted, fingers splayed,
cast my form in stone.

They build a totem
top to bottom: eagle, fox,
otter, beaver, bear.
Denying with semaphore flashes
their own smallness
they speak fingerly to my deaf self.

Now, Kathleen-
while the wind blew
and the boat rocked-
what were you saying?

			Lucille Murphy