the global quieting
will you help me
re-teach the earth
how to make sound?
we watched
it escape through a hole
in the ozone (like a hole
in a pocket) taking all the noise:
a drain,
the slow balloon leak,
bird's voices got
quieter quieter each day.
as a child
you / i would
sit beneath the big pine trees,
straining to hear
cardinals above,
you signed to me
"i can hear one,
i can hear one"
i didn't believe you
but i told you to repeat
the sound back, even your
voice muffled by the thickness
of the air, your mouth
open: a beak, reenacting
the sound of the red bird.
for a moment i heard you
i believed in sound again.
i want you to do that for
every clamor / babel
i want to walk you through
the creek so you can speak
to the water. i'll invent
a sound for the wind,
air through my lips, a rush,
high pitched, what
does high pitched look like?
like bright bleach sun?
like UV protection cream?
of everyone i thought
you might remember
these things, you
who had listened so closely
before the sound left,
i half-believe that
all the noise exists
in your body, that if
you bloomed open you would
music box sing.
if you come back i will
show you, i have practiced
the rain, your favorite,
i make it by flicking
with my tongue
against the back of
my teeth. i imagine
you kissing me while
i do, your mouth
filling with rain.
Robin Gow 