This poem is listening.

In that sense it is open.

Each word

is the surface veil

of a tunnel of listening

with no end or origin.

It receives

the things we think we hide:

the shine of awkward posture

when performing power,

the fervid care – too vulnerable

to share – hiding under small talk.

It hears the sighs

of your fifty trillion cells

living lucidly under your selfing,

and it absorbs your gossip also.

Give it the headlines of the day,

and the ache to fix it all. Give it

the story of your little you

and all the elaborate plans.

The kingdom and the ash.

Give the secret crisis

that pierces the center of all

us creatures here on earth,

these tenderized hearts

wise to the verity

of incipience and loss.

Say your full formal name

and expect no echo.

Say yes

to yourself

and listen

to the listening listening.

~ Brooke Teisui McNamara