Devotion, The Story of My Ear

Devotion, The Story of My Ear
by Beth Woodcome

The floor is cold. Hardwood with small
noises shuttering along each plank.

When I walk I walk blindfolded.
There’s only so much I can stand at once.

I don’t live in the same world anyone else does.
I can feel you in the house. Your breath

at night is my alarm. Something that can
pull me head first, from room to room.

If I can find you living, I’ll sleep.
If I can find you, I’ll stop.

1 thought on “Devotion, The Story of My Ear

  1. Starts out with an experience we’ve all had–creaking floors–but then leaves that behind to enter a world of one’s own, with the exception of “you,” who by “breath” alone asserts its alarming presence; which nevertheless compels the “I” to seek it out and put dementia to rest. That’s a paraphrase. I like the creepy insularity of it, but wonder why the “I” has to walk “blindfolded” instead of, say, earplugged, and what the difference is between finding someone living and just finding them. Still, the poem creates a believable world of inner space.

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