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.