Listening

listening... for the sound your hand makes when it touches mine... for the words your eyes whisper when you laugh... for the song your heart sings, and the prayer your sleeping body becomes, pressed against mine. for the sound of the cicadas chanting in drunken rhythm... for the boiling of beans in my grandmother's kitchen. for the crush of the bat driving the ball deep into the gap. for the gurgle of creekwater running o'er a melon wedged tight. for the sharp crack of the gun and the bullets whistling overhead. for the cry of the hungry baby and the slap against his mother's face. for the clank of the leg irons across a cold concrete floor. and the wail of the widow. for the song of the workers bent neath the sun in the field. for the speech of the visionary who already smells like death. for the pounding of the oil rigs raping the earth without feeling. for the lies of the politician stealing the souls of the people. for the sound of hate's fists pounding the gay boy to death. for the scream of raging empty when they bring a mother's boy home. for the sound of the door, closing for the last time. for the memory of an old hymn, calling from beyond the river. listening... for the moan of lovers, bodies slapping in the night. for the wild beating of a heart dissolving nameless into mine... for the echo of something more than a drink and a feeling... that needs to breathe, to run, to fly, and to dance listening