“Signs, Music”

The first word my son signed
was music: both hands, fingers conducting
music for everything—even hunger,
open mouth for the choo-chew spoon
squealing mmm—music. We’d play
a record while he ate music when
he wanted milk so I pour and hum
a lullaby or “I Just Don’t Know”
by Bill Withers because it’s O.K.
not to know what you want
and I want him to know that. Music
is wiping the table after the plates music
is feel my forehead for fever is whatever
occurs in the center of the body, whatever
makes arms raise up, up.
The second word my son signed
was bird—beaked finger to thumb, bird
for everything outside—window, sky, tree,
roof, chimney, aerial, airplane—birds. I saw
I had given him a sign name. Fingers
to eyes raising from thumbs—wide
eye meaning watchful of the earth
in three different roots—Hebrew, Arabic,
Latin—I love how he clings
to my shoulders and turns
his head to point at the soft body
of a caterpillar sliding across the counter,
and signs, music.

This is drawn from “Signs, Music.”