What I hear,
sitting alone,
is conditioned air whirring,
a train moaning,
traffic stop-starting.
What I want to hear is
your voice telling tales
of children skipping through forests,
Arabs riding carpets over the points of stars,
genies granting triple wishes,
angels tripping over each other
to offer me, in secret, gold-wrapped
presents.
What I want to hear
is the voice of my childhood
laughing at my father's jokes,
his eyes tearing, his great
arms tossing me beyond gravity
& my stomach.
What I want to hear is what
my ears cannot - you
convincing me that I am
loved,
even if I tell the truth.
What I hear
is conditioned
air whirring.
-Erie Chapman
