The 5 Finger School

I try to school them
into motionless dreaming
so that you can't read
the sign language
of hands that still knee-jerk
reaction splay fingers
open with palm to touch
your rough cheek as you
hurridly deposit our
son upon the doorstep;
you are the milkman now.
Invisible chains lash the
five fingers of my
beating heart to my side
or let them fly to my
throat to choke down words
I will not speak again.
I think their lessons have
been harsh, yet still they
rebel, those five fingers,
tap out Morris code against
my thigh like an SOS
for you to save me from this
decided lonliness of being.
Lucky for me you never
studied Morris code so you
smile and rush out into
the waiting Sunday sanctified
and fullfilled by her smile;
symbol of a life written in
dinners and children and friends.
Five fingers from my heart
touch his cheek, part you
part me and know that he
is worth every hour of the
midnight silences you left me.
I am something less ordinary
and as with all things
whose nature is more fire
than water I will be left
to burn until the spark
no longer stirs these fingers
into tapping out messages
to you in my sleep.