She lived her life with an immature desire.
Dancing and singing, her face lit a room.
But like a firecracker before that boom,
many often held their breath while by her.
I remember once, while near her line of fire,
I blushed, a boy of five, from her strong fume.
Her lips spewing forth in an obscene plume,
while she alone would not hear her deafening ire.
Then I’d relay the circumspect reply,
from a confused face speaking through this child,
as my mother lit a fresh cigarette.
Rewinding the tape with her careful eye,
she watched me imitate the words she’d riled,
never showing me any sign of regret.
My mother began losing her hearing as a teenager and was completely deaf soon after my first cries. From a very young age I served as her interpreter by her familiarity in reading my lips, by my finger spelling, or by some limited sign language that we knew.
