sign language

Somewhere in the kitchen, the kettle believes the water
is ready, though the steam still trembles against the air. It is
a sign — that the silence is breaking.
I watch the spill, the careless scald, a thread of warmth
threading itself along the counter. The cup waits, but I do
not reach for it.

I have never been certain of the right temperature for comfort.
Too hot, and the mouth learns regret. Too cold, and it tastes like
forgetting. Somewhere, the air remembers its burn.
The milk sours before I can pour it. I hear it first — a curdled whisper
in the carton. It is a sign, I think, though I do not know of what.
I am told that the body can feel what the mind refuses. My hands
ache at the seams. I press them flat on the table and wonder if
trembling is also another sunburned belief.

Somewhere out in the world, a woman waits for the last bus,
and the sky lowers itself. It is a sign—that the clouds are too tired
to hold themselves up and crack the sun wide open.
But I am not waiting. I drink the tea cold.
I trace the circles the cup leaves behind.
Somewhere in the floorboards, a crack widens and I know,
soon, it will be a sign.