how to listen
©2006 by Jennifer Honeycutt. May not be reproduced without permission.
listen to me when i open my mouth and speak words
you’ve never heard,
like tribulation and gargantuan and precursor.
i don’t want you to look at the tears in my eyes;
i want you to watch the words flow out of my mouth
like water,
like a clear cold stream pouring over the rocks that salt
the earth,
words slipping around puffs of air the way sheets of silk
glide between your fingers.
you’ll hear a hummingbird buzz overhead;
you’ll hear the sandpapery scrape of leaf against branch;
but you won’t hear the simple thoughts
that escape my lips,
the simple melody of words strung together like paper lights.
i choose my words with care;
i should choose my company with greater care.
i’ve long since realized that your presence drains the life
out of my words.
there is no melody left.
there are simply letters, devoid of meaning,
devoid of beauty,
like the tiny empty promises littering the ground
on which you walk.
