Ever hear, far off, a grinding,
some big machine in the wrong gear—
then realize with a pang
it’s an animal in pain?
Once I heard a hawk scree,
opened my door to find
a kitten, a stray, gazing at me, eyes cold.
It’s hard to hear right.
Just ask the Arizonan mother
resting her head on the chest of a girl,
not resting, listening
to her son’s heart, transplanted
into this tiny brown chest.
In antique times those who died abruptly
they called gods. Since that’s not
an Arizonan custom,
the dead boy (still just
a boy) leans his ear
on a splintered wall,
listening to the dogs fighting
just beyond it.
Which is a woman
breathing.