For liberty

Trudy’s characters are graceful,
spare, eccentric. Her language
is descended from graved Braille,
rune, hieroglyphic.

I’d read aloud the papers
she was asked to sign,
changing the words
so she could understand,
and now she counts on me
to read what she has written, too.

A sudden foreigner,
I skim the paper with one fingertip,
as if my flesh might comprehend
what my eyes stagger over,
but the marks withdraw.

Far from me as graceful,
spare, eccentric constellations,
Trudy’s letters test my faith
and the page’s edge
for liberty.