Rebekah Judson

Three Rhythms

Inspired by the work of Walt Whitman

1

The immigrant woman sways in her subway seat.
She sings to a swaddled baby in many layers of clothing
  and gestures with the whole of her body.
I understand her language only by its luscious shape.
I hear its overtones and the meaning is guttural;
A rhythm that reflects off the inside of my retina
  and echoes in the space between my toes.

I wish that I could listen to my own speech from an alien position.
I am so blinded by the texture of association!
Words are never clean and aimless,
They do not come to me naked and vulnerable.

How delightful to be unenlightened!

I envy you—
You who listen with half an ear inside yourself,
  and somehow hear everything.

2

The nurse with sterile hair murmurs to a pink-cheeked boy,
The new mother whispers half-formed syllables,
The leper grumbles into silence, the skier groans into his mittens,
  the grandmother hiccups from deep inside her chest.

The delivery boy covers his nose with a checkered handkerchief,
The appendix blackens in a cloudy jar,
The receptionist lowers her glasses; she sips a cup of coffee without answering,
The stretcher squeaks an odd melody as it rolls down the hall.

The doctor points silently to an illuminated photograph,
the janitor unfolds a black and yellow sign,
the paramedic presses down on many fallen chests,
the sister reads a library book two months after it is due.

The intern hides her shaking hand, the machines whine underneath,
The patient smiles; inside, he is blinking steadily,
The walls press inward, the pillows smother, the floorboards overheat.

3

What is it, to be caught between words?
My tongue clamped to the inside of my mouth,
Feeble with deformed thoughts,
Or too many thoughts,
I press against two circular walls that never intersect.

Explain to me,
Where are they hidden,
The passages behind sentences.

To touch the conduits of electricity,
The deciders of people,
I wish I could understand.

 

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