Beth Seetch


To my hearing aids whispers make
				no sense shush
	except the lush nuzzle of lovers
on my lobes
		my neck, my temple
not the whispers’ breath so much
					as the bass
thrum vibrating fuzzily velvet
	Velvet not Velcro, no tearing away, no
passing any message on
				to any another operator
	in a circle of operators. Just him
				on my right ear and also him too
		on my left
			near the throat, not cool, nor breathy.
				Special syllables mumbled to me only
and nigh
			to grasp, that’s all right. I won’t
			in agreement though I still want soft
	syllables and hard ones.
				In my ear, its canal,
		an ebb, a return, a nose
					his warm nose all his gristle closing in
			on the shell of reception.
		Fill it with soft consonance, esses, exes
	double-yous, a queue. Then a rest.
Whiskers, a leaning cheek.