She stands there, her own corner,
gesticulating to all and sundry,
screwing her face up,
tongues, occasional smiles,
hands of a possessed belly dancer.
But her hair falls lank,
chip shop oiled string,
greasing the screen.
I mean, really,
why don’t her TV friends tell her?
That poor sign language lady.
Oh, maybe they have.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem