Hear

her back is turned to me.
I imagine I see where her
slightly pooched hair
hides her hearing aids.
she looks plain that way
like the back of an old building
without windows that
conceals all but its plainness.
from behind she is a movie screen
before the previews start,
an immovable parked car
stuck in silent snow.
when all I see is
the back of her head
I know I can scream
the way crazed fans do
or make battlefield sounds
and kamikaze crashes;
they bounce off her
as quietly as sunshine on sunglasses.
when her back is turned,
she cannot hear unkind whispers
that might rattle me
and sometimes do.
hers is a backless world
of expressive faces and
requests to repeat what
the rest of us hear the first time.
when her back is turned,
noisy streets are swept away
and she tells me the sound she hears
is the chatter of angels.
I ask what they say
I tell her I want to hear them too
and she opens her arms
to me

(c)B. Koplen

published in Skipping Stones 2005

and in Ripples