I hear the rain in my ear
After taking out the cotton.
A hive of bees in the tunnels
Of my ear canal, buzzing until
They reach and sting the sides.
There is an ocean in my eardrum,
A pale moon controlling harsh tides
That cut razor-sharp and deep.
A swelling in my earlobe paints
The shell and cusp of the top in
Neutral gray, reflecting the storm
Inside with a navigating thunder.
And yet, by the end of this week,
There will be silence. No more
Beehive and foothills of stingers.
No more ocean waves barreling
Against jaded rocks in the sea.
The rain will slow and cease,
A faint whisper in the crook of
My wing under starry skies.
No more storm to weather and
Burrow my head with the
Madness of a wasp's nest.
In late spring, it is still cold—
Like a drought we cocoon ourselves in.
And yet, by the end of this week,
There will be silence. The rain will
Not be in our ears but just outside
The glass. Just wait for that day.
Soon, my reddened ear will be quiet—
And I shall thrive in the silence coming.