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.