by Aileen Bassis

from “Glanmore Sonnets Number Four”

But I never heard that. Always, instead
a drone, a muffled wash, an unheard clamber
of unfinished business. Herds of visions graze by.
We, her, him, our pronouns lapse and you slide off my
flounder-love. Caught in tremulous morning, you misheard
my words. I know you heard me cough. You turned to see
thoughts rippling and I wondered if you heard my keyboard’s
tap, tapping as flotsam words rose and sank and I heard
a kettle whistle and heard the dishwasher’s hum, felt
its steam rise and I wondered if you heard glasses rattling
in their throes. What oceans clasped your un-heard shiver?
We heard girls laughing somewhere in their careless way
and I think you heard me ask you to fill the sugar bowl.
You heard me say, come here. Our coffee’s growing cold. 

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Aileen Bassis is a visual artist and poet in New York City working in book arts, printmaking, photography, and installation. Her use of text in art led her to explore another creative life as a poet. She was awarded two artist residencies in poetry to the Atlantic Center for the Arts. Her poems have been nominated for Pushcart prizes and two poems are in anthologies on the subject of migration. Her journal publications include B o d y Literature, Spillway, Grey Sparrow Journal, Canary, The Pinch Journal, and Prelude.