A deaf republic can’t afford
to sit on its hands,
killing its sign language
in willful silence,
letting memory erase
the fear and the truth.
The disease existed.
The shrouds too.
Concrete does not
pave over the blood.
A stroll in the park
does not tamp the pain.
The Punch and Judy show
is but the pantomime
for the forgetful.
The only sound heard
is the singing of
marionette strings
culled from a pile
of burnt violins.
When the air turns
khaki and violent,
the crowd disperses,
their hands in their pockets
signing and forming words.
In a silent closet at home,
the last parents teach
their children to sign.
The children sign
to the doors, windows,
the grass, the trees, the sky
anything with
the shapes of ears
before ears were banned.
