In the bathroom at the high school
where I teach, two girls from the special
needs class wash their hands in the old white sink.
one lingers as the water rushes over her right
hand, left hand operating the chrome faucet.
I peek at her and she at me
while I quickly cleanse and towel.
I think of Helen Keller at the water pump,
her teacher spelling w-a-t-e-r into her hand
in the sunlight, and the mad and sudden
understanding.
The girl goes on washing one hand,
w-a-t-e-r, as if it is a spiritual ritual,
her friend now at the electric hand dryer,
looking at me looking at her,
all those eyes calculating and no words spoken
or spelled, but heavy in the air.
I am curious; this is awkward;
say something.
Her friend, who wears royal purple,
points to my keys,
which have fallen to the floor from my bag.
"Hey, your keys," she says, and I celebrate
the words, the dawn of her smile.
I am free to pick up the keys and go,
and still the girl washes.
W-a-t-e-r, I sign to God, to Him who sits
at the right hand of God, and think of
Jacob, struggling all night with the angel.
Jacob, walking with a limp forever after.
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