This much I cannot say:
for even the tools of my writing trade can collapse
into a broken English, a pidgin language of awkwardness.
I meant to say, but the perfect opener, witticisms always fall

This much I cannot speak:
for the immutability of your face has cast a spell on my anxious eyes,
a montage of “What?” and repetitions. My hands wish to fly
free of my voice, not caring any more whether you understand: Just like

This much I cannot share:
for this lightheartedness of mine must be hidden for fear of frightening
you again. (No, not like that night when I asked you….) O if I could
beckon you closer, to hear your question


Silence is always a powerful statement, but even more so in the hands of Raymond Luczak, who demonstrates in his third collection what it’s like to navigate between the warring languages of confusion and clarity. As a deaf gay man in the hearing world, he lends an unforgettable voice to his reality of ache and loss beyond the inadequate translation of sound.


The cover shows two photographs: A panoramic shot of a gnarly tree in the foreground against a manicured lawn far into the distance; the black-and-white photograph is tinted in a light teal. Below it is a pair of young men closing their eyes and resting their heads against each other off the edge of a sofa. The wall to the right shows the title and author's name in white: MUTE | RAYMOND LUCZAK. Near the bottom of the image says A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S PRESS.

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