A Response
Today, across the street, I heard you
calling for your child and at that moment
a satellite sent a message into space.
The hum of a hive buzzed louder
in its wax cells, signaling the place
where flowers grow, and my grandmother
inked into a small diary the difference
between then,
dropping by for a moment
the office where her husband worked
to pick up a paper and a smile, and now,
feeling his presence there when she sorts
through files and collections of books.
I heard the silence that you called
and the dogs barked across the ocean
at cars, bicycles, and boats rushing past
and where it was night, wolves howled
at a reflection of the sun, vivid
and full. A searchlight swept the sky
above the chatter of an old county fair,
an attraction so crowded, it’s easy
to get separated from the ones you love.
A red balloon rose as if from a child
inside my throat and I wanted to say:
I hear you this time.
I hear you.
