All the distinct dialects of silence—

a mirror’s singular translation,
relay of ripples on a pond’s surface.

Voices delivered in static envelopes
as needles sang through cloth: women
whose fingers sewed bead after bead

on my blouse. Intricate blueprint
on a field dark as night, recipe they
never need rehearse. Whereas I

send my arms through each sleeve, stretch
hems across hips— fumble through syllables,
semaphores to spell out what I want most.


In response to Via Negativa: Farewell to London.

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