The Listener

I don’t know what I expected to find here

when I was a kid, I would construct images of you

there among the rafters and in the fold of the curtains

in the shadow of the speakers, mounted so high

over my head, like a threat

I tried to convince myself you were there

when I bowed my head, and my knees

bore the weight of my body;

I listened in the hall when I would enter

and wash myself with your water

I listened while old men droned on and on

and I nodded off, to catch myself

pretend I was paying attention

to not catch a glare later

I listened when everyone left and I was alone

lighting candles, thinking of my grandmother

and everyone who took wing before her

like starlings when startled

I listened when everything I had built left

in an eighteen foot moving van

leaving deep grooves in my dirt

… I had nowhere else to go; now

I call out with my rough throat then

I listen, and only emptiness returns to me

maybe though I’m listening for a shout

when really I should

expect a whisper

or nothing at all.