Ears are the eyes on the sides of your head.
Memory lives here, between these apostrophes.
As if to predict music, the ear contains a drum.
A musical note calling out for the shape of music.
For the coin in the slot to unlock the gears.
For the egg with a horse in it.
Some people are born addicted to sense.
Some are born infected with silence.
Poetry is an-ant-ant-anti-antibiotic.
“A horse pill.”
Yes, there is an actual horse in this pill.
Imagine it like a fetus pressed to the shell.
The reason there are no unicorns is just that.
This is the egg tooth.
And you, what did you pay to enter this world?
Copyright © 2025 by Benjamin Garcia. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 24, 2025, by the Academy of American Poets.
