I spend my days with people who cannot connect object to word,
word to feeling, feeling to person. Perhaps some if this seeps into me,
perhaps I’ll next be called to mime. What is the motion
for fear – is it crouching, arms braced in front of me, mouth agape?
Is it approaching a large girl with long, knotted hair and then running, silently
screaming? Is it waiting silently beside a silent phone?
My words no longer reach out to anyone. Once they were my outreached hand
that you held. Once, they were a cacoon I wintered in; once, they were my scream.
The mime pulls the rope, back leaning, legs straining, her actions
are convincing, but we are no longer fooled. Did I ever really fool
anyone – this is what I wonder now. This and how to try again,
to lift the rope I cannot see and at least fool myself again.