That morning
I never heard
the familiar creaks in the floorboards,
the echo of the neighbor
in the hall, rushing away, the quiet
birds building to a colored roar,
only the buzz
of all of my bones,
against the perfect place
of the rain.
That day
I listened
to twenty beating hearts, each
full and impossible, lungs
inflating on last night’s dream, the quick
reflexive swallow
of responsibility. I heard
the distant knock
of depression, letting itself sneakily in,
denial circling in a storm out the
backyard window, the tinkling
of regret threatening
to tear the shingles
from the roof.
That evening
a birth, followed by a
death, both sounding the same,
until all the wailing.
That night
release, listening
to the moon rise
through a cavern of dark,
imagining one thousand whispered
“good nights” along the highways, the
hallways, remembering
the beating hearts
ka kum ka kum, the lungs
filling and filling
on hope, my own quiet rocking
in my parents arms. Like nothing
I have ever heard, like nothing
I ever will.
