I MISS WHISPERS
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
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.