The Tapping

by Sandee Gertz

Most of earth’s action is hidden from view
Like the things you tried to tell me in the ICU,
pointing to my silver bracelet, my mouth empty,
though I was the interpreter.

Appointed by Dad who could not read your lips,
the tubes to the throat a lisp, like your ghost
was already talking while I guessed and grabbed
at syllables from the air around us.

I thought you liked the silver around my wrist,
But there was more: the tap tapping you did there,
Insistent as your arms tied to the bed, mouthing
I don’t…want ____ here…

We expand the boundaries of our reach
when stars appear. And so I tried again,
birthing the formation of an earth.
As my sister in law knew that death
is much like being born
and coached you to the sliver of light.

I wanted to fill in the blank words,
But instead doubled over when I heard
your midnight breaths,
the tectonic plates of our valley shifting.

The Rain comes in many forms
And sometimes it is a washcloth laid

On a forehead when you’re 12 and
Day’s of Our Lives plays on the unmounted television.

Driving home, at the streetlight of the old neighborhood
I saw you, pushing up the pedal pants above your knees
in the dandelioned yard to catch the rays on David Street
and all the artificial suns fell to the earth.

It was the first time I heard God speak:

Honeysuckle
Thunder

It wasn’t my bracelet at all.
It was yours, your name, a birthdate, a place.

The tapping a translation.