Call an airborne loved one
My right fist is a handset; my thumb the earpiece,
little finger a mouthpiece. Now my fist is horizontal,
finger and thumb are the wings of a plane
coming into land at the airport of my left open palm,
thumb wing tilted on Mount of Venus.
Do the ears of the imaginary people pop?
Have they turned on their phones? Yes or no?
Which? My horizontal fist and indicative digits shake
from side to side, the calloused airstrip falls away.
Passengers of this ham-fisted pilot suffer turbulence.
They need a restorative glass of wine – tip thumb flute
and little finger stem to lips to ferment the flow of flesh
before the back of my fist is stuck to my forehead with
hex finger and little finger horns. This is how the devil looks,
jealous of all things that fly and land safely. Think
of sound waves travelling at the speed of love. Maybe –
my fist vibrates, little finger and thumb cocked – it is time
to make that call. My right fist is a handset;
my thumb the earpiece, little finger a mouthpiece.
I am thinking of all the calls that were never heard.
LISA KELLY’s first collection is A Map Towards Fluency (Carcanet). Her pamphlet From the IKEA Back Catalogue is due from New Walk Editions. She is co-editing with Sophie Stone a Deaf anthology of poetry and short fiction for Arachne Press.