Silence

I never told my mother

about the hands that grew

beneath my floral summer pants.

There are words on my skin,

in a language she can't speak.

That was the day

I grew another tongue.

Perhaps, if I spoke in dreams,

I would make sense.

But my body defies sleep.

They say I'm always searching for water

when I'm sleepwalking.

Perhaps I should cast myself

into rivers-a new baptism.

Or patter down

like rain on a window,

or pour out

like tears in a prayer

against this divine silence.

Or lifelong,

wait for all of this

to mount up to a word.

Perhaps then,

I'll be all over with sound.