My beloved is knocking,
The creaking of the chair as my back yields to its softness and
the scratching sound of pen on paper,
motor fading in the distance,
and my stomach's gurgle.
Sounds of settling in.
Their voices are crying to be heard and you have already received the call.
Buried bodies, their arms are reaching up, grasping the air for anything solid to grab.
They are crying, calling, and
you are deaf from things to do, buried dreams, and impotence.
The first step is to listen.
From the safety of your HVAC home
and rocking chair,
their voices feel very faint
but their faces burn your eyes,
their eyes staring,
windows to the soul,
pain thresholds exceeded
and still standing
If you don't see them now will you grieve them when they are gone?
© Christine Salkin Davis, 2019