Bionic HearingDeborah Ager
I hear your voice in Hyderabad. I hear particles shift in a butterfly’s wake; the particles change to dirt clouds that gather more particles and turn to storms that turn to a microburst that splits your shed, so you search the streets for your gardening tools. I hear the lightning before it hops through a window, and I hear you want to leave me and I hear the sirens come for my neighbor and I hear morose notes through a composer’s window until they’re downed by a screaming train. I hear the holy bells of St. Andrews calling for services. The tolling wakes the dead, and I hear the dead complain it’s too hot and I stuff earplugs into my ears and I hear how much noise my body makes, vibrating against my bones. I hear when no one speaks.
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