All Your Light Caught in a Quiet Room

After your parents die you become fascinated
with bones. These objects of our material
scaffolding, which we feel but almost never  

touch. You tell me there are twenty-seven
bones in our hands, and ten thousand signs
in sign language so each bone must know

hundreds of words. As we lie intertwined,
you ask me if the dead can see our light.
If they can find us by a radiance pouring  

off our living skeletons. You know they            
can’t hear us, no words can bridge that gap.
You wonder if light in its blazing haste

might blast through the gate of the dead
where sound ricochets away. Maybe we
should see a therapist. Nobody is prepared

to lose both their parents. But you want to
speak to them with only the light spilling
off your body, and it isn’t my place

to say it won’t work. You start learning
sign language, teach me the shape
of your name. One night you sign to them,

telling your mom her begonias survived
a hard frost, telling your dad that I am
a silence you can heal in. I lie on our bed,

watching your bones spell their soundless
iambs. Between each is longing, bright
enough for anyone watching to find you.