They speak in fiery tongues
and burning Braille breath, the
taloned syllables of sky. Sanskrit
scales and trails of scarlet smoke.
We listen with our outstretched
hands, our hearts, our will and whim
and why, and wonder how long be
-fore we understand we’re all broken
pieces of the same slang. We sigh
and sign our own names, fingers
flying, laced with ache and the lava
-lake spill of their echoed hum. Some
day we’ll trace our own scars with
hungry fingers, and know the bump
and bruise of mourning, a calling from
afar. The shattered languages of stars.
Prompted by Poetic Asides.