By John C. Mannone
Standing alone in the silent hills, hands folded on the controls of a great radio telescope, I pray to hear what the heavens declare.
My ear, lifted in reticulations of steel,
presses its aluminum timpani
to her bosom, the soft hiss
of her breath like a kiss in the night.
I touch her face, every smooth
piece of sky, every wrinkle
of starlight. I cannot see with my eyes
but feel the Braille of her, with the tips
of my fingers telescoping the dark,
read her contours with oscilloscopes —
every jot and tittle
that fabrics the heavens.
I do not know how to hear
her susurrations, but I cup my ear,
point the antenna-stethoscope
towards her heart. For a moment,
I understood why Robert Frost
would choose something like a star,
but I plead beyond the stars.
I feel her pulse,
sense the cosmic echoes there,
listening with my own heart.
… I hear the small still whispers.
John C. Mannone, nominated three times for the Pushcart, has current and forthcoming work in The Baltimore Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Linden Avenue Literary Journal, Ayris, Prairie Wolf Press Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, Pedestal, Rose Red Review and others. He’s the 2013 Rhysling Chair, the poetry editor for Silver Blade, an adjunct professor of physics, and a NASA/JPL Solar System Ambassador. Visit The Art of Poetry at jcmannone.wordpress.com.