After three days of watching their slangy, fast-
fingered exuberant talk,
then their slow, crude placement of words
on paper, I wanted only to reach the girl
who’d do nothing
I asked. One morning she gave in,
wrote “Silence has a rough, crazy weather,”
and shoved the paper at me,
this hearing person she didn’t trust.
Oh I admired her resistance, and her
great small truth about silence,
and she knew it, kicked the nearest chair
when I looked her way, turned her face
into stone.
She must have known how soon I’d retreat
into my other, easier world. She must have
known there’d be some cost
for compliance, and what she couldn’t afford.
There’ve been others in my life smart enough
not to let themselves
be loved by me, but I can’t remember
wanting so hard what I couldn’t get;
one more line, I’d sign,
one more word. She wouldn’t lift her hand.
Her classmates flashed fingers at her.
She flashed back
expletives anyone could understand.