by Natalia Conte
Like all dark moments, their entrance
begins with cello, a low grating C
like the bow of a ship digging into ice.
I know there’s danger in the rippling
of sound, the way the air seems to boil
with urgency. Of course, this signals
their arrival, the aliens, their bodies like hands
reaching from halted wrists.
Dr. Banks keeps her hands close
to her body to stop them from shaking.
She scrawls the word human
on a small whiteboard, points inward.
Drawn in dense billows of ink,
their language chases its own tail
does not distinguish between beginnings
and endings. We cannot write with two hands
synchronously, our mind can’t know
where the phrase may go if given the chance
to roam. I am more conscious of my hands
than ever before, the way they hang, palmy,
like nothing good. I wish I could stop
their tendency to reach for everything,
try to cradle every moment in case
it’s the last of its kind, a near
extinct species. Moments of sharing
sweat with strangers under concert light,
bodies being stirred into movement by the
same beat. Empty gestures of goodbyes
when we knew we would see each other
soon. Touching hands without glass between.
I’ve never wanted to hold anything like I want
to hold language like a mathematician
break its parts into sequences
and make small moments
mean more. I want an algorithm
for the feeling of fearing
your own kind, a lack
of variables in the equation
for compassion. I want
to touch each syllable where the
meaning lives, watch them quake
under the tug of my pen, its little billow.
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