Maybe we were thinking ears
instead of hands.
Stepping off the bus, we glimpsed
a flicker, then a flitting
from a sleeve. We felt
annoyed, then afraid,
like spotting an ant on the tablecloth, then
another and another, till it hit us:
what we had on our hands was a nest,
a population:
everyone here signed
except for us, and our bus driver
was departing in our empty yellow school bus,
leaving us standing there, wondering
where the gym was.
Once inside, we polished our lay-ups,
stole looks
at the deaf team polishing theirs:
we were taller,
but something in the air—tunneling, darting,
singing among them—
said they were quicker.
Their whoops when they scored, their groans
when the ball rolled round the rim full circle
and out,
were perfectly intelligible.
But the ref was at a loss:
he kept blowing his whistle
while they dribbled to the hoop,
scoring points that didn’t count.