You wonder if I'm lonely, on my own all these years,
but the days here are loud with the thousand ways

sun speaks to leaves in a trembling language of light,
water speaks to stone with an intimacy that alters—

forming the canyon's throaty echo, cascade's insistent clamor,
current hissing over the shift of gravel while deer flies

buzz bloodlust in my ear. And in the evening when I retire
to my empty bed, that acreage of untroubled sheets,

and cast the windows wide for a cool breath of wind,
gnats and alates slip through the screen to orbit

the moon-soaked gleam of my skin, the soft patter
of their wings whispering in the hushed hours.

Perhaps I’m meant to pine for the steady heat
of a body beside me, murmur of voices in the next room,

but I've never felt called by my kind—who speak sorrow
like a mother tongue, profane the air with anger,

feign holiness at the revelation of every ordinary grace.
Isn’t it enough that my own voice sounds in my head

like a gong struck to shake the temple walls and
spark fear in the heart? But outside cicadas rasp

with desire until night shivers with their resonance,
eloquent and wordless, and a barred owl, not mistaking

the bright-browed moon for a face of omniscience,
sings a hymn truer than any human could.

—Zoe Boyer

Poet’s Website

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