Night Recess, Coal Street

The School for the Deaf has a long lawn.
In the dark, after rain, it smells like lake water.
Deaf children play under yard lights.
Sound comforts:
from within their bodies
muffled hoots and warbles
travel great distances.
Who needs to understand?
Gestures conduct the orchestra of air.

Tonight the air is full of towns
And lakes and things
I seldom say, or speak:
For instance, whom I love.
Through wrought iron fence
kids on a court are a silent film.
The ball itself seems to bounce
without sound.

These nights go against the rules.
Sensations murmur
in the palm, on the skin,
in the sway of heavy branches.
Dazzle of car lights, slickness of tire,
I am spying on a recess,
an absence of syllable.

I imagine words
I could live without.
Say “lesbian,”
or “husband.”
Watch language stake
its stupid claims.

Off the bus,
where I walk
by the School for the Deaf,
there is nothing
for me to understand.

The night is itself—
textures in wind,
a wild enthusiasm of arms.

—Gwen Ebert