Mute

Hands like flushed doves 
flutter to say: dry the dishes— 

sweep the floor, but never be quiet.
When she went blind, too,

we spelled goodnight and I love you tenderly, 
tracing each alphabet 

on the scattered leaves of her palms. 
I married and she touched 

my hips, spreading her hands wide 
to note I was getting fat. She patted 

my growing belly but never 
cradled my offspring. 

When the infant died, 
pantomime cries 

fell like trees in storms 
from her mouth.