I forget who I am in the quiet.

Marlin M. Jenkins

Even if there is
no full quiet, just quiet-ish:
even with the ceiling fan
off, the dehumidifier un-
plugged, there is my ears’
steady ring, a hum sharp-
ening against itself. But
it is not enough to impale
the translucent sheet
of empty, the matter made
of absence. As a child,
each night the children
next door’s voices kept
me company, as did the ice
cream truck we were sure
was a front for a plug as it
bumped down the rock-filled
road long past dark. Now, outside
my window the bus stop runs
late into the night, the concrete
of the market’s too-steep exit
scrapes the under-bumper of car
after car, the man who plays
tuba—poorly but with more
heart than lots of poets—
bleats an off-rhythm on cold
days. Who I am echoes
off each sound. Without a voice
in the open field, I’d just
wander in circles until
my allergies make breathing
untenable. Even on my most
introverted days, there you are
with me, a layer of sound
like a layer of fresh cake,
like a rubber pattern on
the shoe’s soul so I don’t
slip, like a calibrating
vibration, orienting me
to myself.