By Rebekah Devine

To my husband

If ev’ry other sense battened,
Sight dulled and smell flattened,
If calloused touch and stilted taste
Should rouse the drum and sudden haste
the hammer, anvil, stirrup, nerve,
Whelming me with aural verve,
Tuning me to sound alone,
Voice to skin and skin to bone –

Then make me blind, starved, athirst
For the texture and scent of the earth;
May leper’s flesh engulf my core,
To set my heart unto the score,
May cataracts subdue my sight
To fill my soul with holy light
Not of sun, but, oh, of sound,
That draws up life out of the ground

For as your music strikes my ear,
I see, I smell, I taste, I feel:
The stony wall in the meadow ensconced,
And the wicket gate by the thicket moss,
The glow of the nightfly, the cry of the thrush,
The scent of petals newly crushed,
The thick, voluminous eye of the day,
Looking o’er the wispy blades,
The trees a copse of gathering gray,
Their arms a mighty, massive sway –

The whole world running to me
In a single bar of sound.
Your whole being offered to me
In a moment, a movement, a melody.