No Walls of Stone

Wing Biddlebaum

Anne McDonald

My hands talking like birds
give me my name, a "W" soaring
from the temple. They amaze me,
banish vowel, consonant of my baptismal
name like English sparrows. I taunt:
"roost-pigeon," "piss-smell."

In answer: the handshape: "dream."
The "need" finger drifts,
shows me bright animals, prey
of air. I learn to link
the scarlet teenager
with scarlet fever. I'm
the shamed red woman, waiting
for cities to rise after
Babel, from a language of shapes.

In this night-anchor, my hand-
birds claim a field-harvest:
church, tree, fireflies.

The Deadening of October - Speaking About the Deaf Child

Order This Book

Back to the Book
Back to the Home Page