March 2023
Bio Note: Born and adopted in Luxembourg with a deaf twin sister, I grew up cherishing every moment that we spent together. I mourned the loss of Renée, in a sense, when she left to attend a residential school for the Deaf at age twelve, and again when she suffered brain damage as a result of an accident a few years ago. As well as to celebrate our twinhood, writing poems has helped me to process loss, and a partial collection appears in my award-nominated chapbook, Seeing Voices: Poetry in Motion. It can be found on Amazon and at RIT in New York, in the poetry section of the university’s library.
Seeing Voices
My twin sister used to shut her eyes to shut me up when we argued. Born deaf, she held the advantage in any girlhood fight. I had no choice but to be instantly muted — her eyelids, a remote control when static sounded like me. I would steady my hands in a signed first-word-of-a-sentence, poised to whip the air in a justified retort. Hands tired in one position though — a pouting pinkie dangling from my palm. If I caught her squinting one eye, I signed swiftly to get a word in, until nut-brown eyelashes cemented once more, silencing my voice, sheathing my words without permission. Tap, tap, tap on the shoulder: Listen to me. Tap, tap, tap: I have something to say … I’m sorry. I was wrong. You’ll never know if you don’t open your eyes and hear me. I’d reach out to touch her hand. I can’t shout if I’m holding yours. Truce? I miss her most on cloudy days. I recall those rainy afternoons when we finger painted under the kitchen’s fluorescent bulb and sipped Hawaiian Punch from smeared aluminum cans — quieter moments by necessity, but colored still with goofy grins and funny red mustaches. Sometimes, I slip away to my mirror in the bedroom to see her nut-brown eyes gazing back at me. I press my palm against the cool glass, just to touch her hand again.
Originally published in Poetic Sun.
Rumors of Spring
An empty checkered vase rests on the shelf, dusty and long abandoned. You once were a bud, and I held you. Though divine in design and regal in intention, you sipped water from modest, tiny roots, an unkept promise. Even near sunlight you lived in a shadow, dependent upon movements of hands on a clock. Until, a nascent meadow revealed itself beyond our paned window, cradling twins of another kind. You tentatively took leave and found your place. Sunlight illuminated you and struck you luminescent. I watched you play in teal-tinted rains, and marveled as your auburn hair absorbed autumn’s last dusk. You were named as nature had promised. And soon, with rumors of spring made real, You bloomed.
Originally published in Seeing Voices: Poetry in Motion (Kelsay Books, 2022).
I found an old yellowed coloring book today belonging to us when four-year-old fingers grasped a potential to learn to shade within bold lines. I traced the outline of two tulips in a vase. Indigo and Magenta overlapped and bloomed like you into a color unnamed that had refused to be constrained. I carefully removed the page, and folded another memory of you gently into me.
Originally published in Front Porch Review.
©2023 Kelly Sargent