Rebecca Macijeski
SELF PORTRAIT AS AN EAR
When my head is sleeping
and I’m tipped toward the sky,
I get to be myself.
I don’t have to report anything.
I can listen and listen
for the room’s dark galaxy.
Sometimes a cat settles her heft nearby.
Some nights a train takes twenty minutes
to escape the limits of what I know.
I like it when the long hollow
is mine alone. I can keep sounds
for what they are
without warping them into sense.
Sometimes the head rolls over.
Then it’s my sister’s turn
at the front of the array.
Hers is a different story.
When she shares with me what she hears
I don’t try to understand.
I won’t take her music
and make it my story.
The listening is enough.
The listening keeps us here,
keeps us tuned to the long hollow.
We store each arrival for what it is.
A bird. A floorboard.
A rumbling pipe. A shimmer of leaves.
The train’s whistle.
These aren’t ghosts.
These are what we know.