PEGGY SHUMAKER
What the Deaf Long to Hear
We might have predicted,
those of us who eavesdrop
every day on the world
desire to listen
to a daughter's fetal heartbeat,
or the practical
need to know
when to shift
to a higher gear.
Even the Moonlight
Sonata, wanting
notes of music to fall
into a life ghostly
as reflections from deep
in space. But would we ever
have thought
that on this earth
someone aches
to know for herself
the rest of the story
wind tells birch trees,
the syntax
of the splitting
maul, wrenched
out of chainsawed rounds,
the voice of fire
as it casts its spell
on cold skin,
punctuation
of popcorn,
how to know
when anything is
signaling,
ready, done.
Someone aches
to know
what clue
tells others
she's hungry
for the difference
in sound when surf
breaks, when a heart
lurches, when water heals
after swallowing
a diver. 
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