My father could hear a fish diving into the depths,
or a bee lost in an odourless darkness
and every pump of blood
that kept us alive.

More spoke to him from the vacant-eyed creatures
than his own blood,
standing feet beneath him,
screaming but still silent for his loud disapproval.

My father lived with the sounds
of walls closing in on him,
blocking the barriers with the
thoughts of his children’s voices.

*After William Stafford's "Listening"