In Patient

My husband holds the cold stethoscope to my chest—

his brown eyes averted, he listens carefully,

like someone taking directions on the phone

on how to save another life.

My heart is a room full of dispatchers

waiting for those strange-hour, desperate calls,

trained to keep you on the line while help arrives.

But what he says, smiling up at me,

after he’s listened awhile is,

“I think I can hear the ocean.”

And I know he must be right—

that what he hears is some small part

of the 95% of water on earth

yet to be explored,

that there is still no word for life

that doesn’t sound like the hush of the ocean.