Poem for Bruce Linton and Appamada Friends

I take refuge in the sound.

Sounds that enter a fluid filled snail shell in our heads

pluck the nerves of our harp strings.

Sometimes, too much sound comes crashing in,

destroys the strings.

So, I take refuge in my strings that sing still.

I take refuge in the ducks palavering on muddied pond.

I take refuge in the bird calls welcoming a rest from sun.

I take refuge in the sigh of the runner stopping on the lane.

I take refuge in the songs of India emanating from the radio in the refugees’ hands.

I take refuge in the rush of water under the scurrying bellies of ducks,

in the gravel of the paths beneath our feet,

in the coded conversation of twin brothers walking by,

the leaves of trees whispering messages in the wind,

the roar of far-off traffic blaring by,

the laughter of the little girl throwing breadcrumbs to the chattering ducks,

the man’s hand patting the bark of the dying tree,

the creaks of my knees.

I take refuge that the ringing in my head is briefly veiled by the mist of outside sounds.

I take refuge in the heat in the spray of garden hose against our feet,

in the press of air against my skin,

in flapping of a cormorant’s wings.

I take refuge that none of this will last.

But it feels so good to be here, now, with you.

—Emily Romano