By Matthew Kelsey
Once the children have found a seat,
have zipped or clicked
or pulled open their lunch,
and a hush falls over
the crowd, they’re free
to remove their ill-fitting
masks. For the next half hour,
no talking’s allowed. Instead,
the kids point to food
and rate it with winks, thumbs
up or down. They’ll tap or kick
a code across the long,
foldable tables, laugh
a silent laugh. Sometimes, they listen
to Jack Johnson cover songs
for Curious George, or hear
Itzhak Perlman deliver Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons, or zone out
to the sounds of a biome set
on loop. Our own room’s sounds
of nature would probably feature
a scrape, slurp, click, or crunch.
I have a hunch most people
would see in this voicelessness
sadness, would file it away
as another loss in a growing
pile of loss. But look at the smiles
as one of them draws
an invisible bow across the air,
and the whole room
shivers with joy. Witness
the roller solar shades sliding up,
the windows casting light
upon each face. Snow
tumbles down, and we point
our fingers in sudden,
unrehearsed synchronicity.
Matthew Kelsey has taught at universities, community colleges, and elementary schools for the past 13 years, and is currently an instructor for the Kenyon Review Young Writers program. His poems can be found in The American Poetry Review, Copper Nickel, Colorado Review, and elsewhere.
