Hearing Her Voice

We are descending now,
Gilbert chemistry in hand,

erector dysfunction shining,

all this squirreliness, all this calculus.

We will make it remind us of us.

The moment we see the other will be

the moment of helpless compression.

Alas, we cannot make it.

Nor can we catch a wind sample,

the one that would carry the note from Mother.

The transmission of sound has not landed.

If Mother had learned sign what would she tell us?

Would she smile and with a look of utmost compassion,

transmit, "welcome"?

Or would this emptiness signal a baffling,  gestures

that no logarithmic concern, no amount of sifting

would ever solve? Meanwhile the hopeful screen,

like the court artist, renders a quiet rebus of the unseen.

Noted but not accepted.