Dear Maker,

and Molly McCully Brown

Under my body’s din,

             a hum that won’t quiet,

I still hear what you’ve hidden

             in all the waves of sound:

each bead of pain

             that buries its head

like a black-legged tick,

             intractable but mine

to nurse or lure with heat.

             Please, tell me

what it means that I’ve grown

             to love the steady sound

of so many kinds of caving in,

             buckling down, the way

a body gives itself away

             like a sullen bride or the runt

who couldn’t latch? I know I’m just

             a hairline crack the music

leaves behind. I love

             the music, though I can’t keep it.