No one knows that she talks
to me, spills her days in lovely
chatter-songs that wake me
every morning and bed me at night.
With others, silence marks her
as aloof or elusive or even enigmatic,
but she’s not really a question.
More a comma, a pause
when she crooks her neck
slightly to the left, weighing
what to say and decides to say
Why fill silence with words when
it isn’t empty of meaning? She asks
for the curve of my inner ear
its fine vibrating bones, not my poetry.
Which makes me uncertain until
she smiles, leans in and mouths my name,
its vowels and open sounds.
They say her native language is written to mimic
the mouth in speech. How to open the lips
and where to put the tongue are half-lines
and circles, illustrating human sounds.
Her voice brushes my skin, soft
as breath, quiet as a heartbeat,
and this is how I hear her.
© Ami Mattison