truthfully, Beloved, i have only three languages:
one for childhood, one for love, and one for the deathbed.
they are interchangeable.

but my face is so used to neglect
that i have no mouth any more.  only my fingers
can speak-- and even then, they make no sound.

my hands can only heal or hear.
please
let these be the same.

my eyes have only sad
or beatific vision.
please alternate these reliably.

in some ways, i hope my love will
outlive me and turn up in the lines of your palms,
songs, jet trails in the sky.

with my bad eye, i can only hear
light and silhouette.  you used to speak my name,
but it has become ill-fit for use, ill-suited
to your mouth;

i have become your minor child now,
given up for adoption,
elapsed and nameless.   let me give
no more speeches to the speechless.

i am a woman dipped in wax and doused
in feathers and forget-me-nots.
yet i can't stop trying to record the undeniable
attempts to love and be loved

failure is not a deterrent