You piece the shapes of my mouth together
tracing messages, my constellations
bounding deer. You don’t hear me yell
until I hold your small palm to my throat.
Sound is funny. We laugh at the words.
They get in the way, odd winged things.

Words dart around us for nothing.
We snicker at those lassoing them together
because all for what? Tangled words
march away into air, constellations
wilder than lightning. We watch others yell,
incensed, thrusting thunder from their throats

and laugh, leaping into the hill’s throat
behind the school, gathering lilacs, pretty things
we want to remember. School bells yell
to return Children gather together
like wolves. In dirt, we sketch constellations.
Their mouths must hurt from so many words.

You think maybe they don’t.  Give me their words!
your mouth says. A cracking in my throat.
I don’t want to fight with constellations
too hard to see.  There are greater things
I say,  things that fit well together,
that don’t fall apart.  But still you yell,

Give me the words!  I’m tired of your yell.
I point to their lips.  You read the words.
You look with your O mouth, your O throat,
squinting and the sounds fly away together,
blurring by, dying constellations
we cannot see. They look like nothings.

Our eyes hurt at the sight of nothings
their mouths shape. We map lips and yells
flashing by, ineffable constellations,
stitching together their half-words,
craters in the dark. We feel together
for thunder, sewing symbols to their throats

for nothing. They get in the way, their throats
tangling the air with wayward words,
the signs never right, never falling together.

Deaf Body


haggadah Section: Commentary / Readings
Source: Sarah Katz