listening... for the sound <br />your hand makes when it touches mine... <br />for the words your eyes whisper <br />when you laugh... <br />for the song your heart sings, <br />and the prayer your sleeping body <br />becomes, pressed against mine. <br />for the sound of the cicadas <br />chanting in drunken rhythm... <br />for the boiling of beans <br />in my grandmother's kitchen. <br />for the crush of the bat <br />driving the ball deep into the gap. <br />for the gurgle of creekwater <br />running o'er a melon wedged tight. <br />for the sharp crack of the gun <br />and the bullets whistling overhead. <br />for the cry of the hungry baby <br />and the slap against his mother's face. <br />for the clank of the leg irons <br />across a cold concrete floor. <br />and the wail of the widow. <br />for the song of the workers <br />bent neath the sun in the field. <br />for the speech of the visionary <br />who already smells like death. <br />for the pounding of the oil rigs <br />raping the earth without feeling. <br />for the lies of the politician <br />stealing the souls of the people. <br />for the sound of hate's fists <br />pounding the gay boy to death. <br />for the scream of raging empty <br />when they bring a mother's boy home. <br />for the sound of the door, <br />closing for the last time. <br />for the memory of an old hymn, <br />calling from beyond the river. <br />listening... for the moan of lovers, <br />bodies slapping in the night. <br />for the wild beating of a heart <br />dissolving nameless into mine... <br />for the echo of something more <br />than a drink and a feeling... <br />that needs to breathe, to run, to fly, <br />and to dance <br />listening<br /><br />Eric Cockrell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/listening-9/
