I cannot hear it, the beep of the IV
or the tick of nurse’s pen on the chart
or the wheels of the gurney as they roll
into the operating room, can’t hear
the voice of the doctor or the anesthesiologist,
can’t hear the soft tide of her breath
as she drifts into blackness nor the dry
mumbling from her lips as she comes to.
So I listen to this room and the silence
that holds it, listen to the only words
that rise up in me.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
I whisper it into the silence
as if a thousand miles away she could hear them.
And then it is only silence.
It wraps its sound around me
soft as a mother’s embrace,
gentle and strong as wings that fold me in
until silence itself becomes prayer.