We circle on thin air, like hawks. What we heard
and seized on one day makes us long for more;
thus we are grateful for that one small word
of comfort. Soothe us; we want our fear obscured
by touch, by words. We wait outside that door
and listen with our eyes, like owls. What we heard
rustling in the leaves, under the snow has lured
us from our small habits. Our hearts are poor.
We are grateful for that one small word
of love. Enfold us, tell us we are cured
of vicious faults. Tell us what to hope for
as we circle each other, our lies heard
and believed, our truths rancorous and absurd.
Why must it always be either/or?
If we are so grateful for one small word,
explain why hearing it has not assured
us. Raised to repress, we will always be poor.
We circle like hawks, crying to be heard,
waiting for more than one small word.
Published in The Ledge, Fall 2001
©Beth Partin 2001. All rights reserved.
