When your body aches to speak, my body becomes an ear,
my skin the tympanic membrane,
my bones the hammer on the anvil on the stirrup,
my organs the cochlea, all nerves firing to my brain.
How strange is your accent. Speak slowly
that I may hear you as well as I see.
The ear's vestibule? My heart, of course,
keeps me balanced and attuned to gravity.
Plan for this poem-in-process.