Before the Ruptured Eardrum

BEFORE THE RUPTURED EARDRUM

I remember the tremble of
my sister's voice hitting
the highest note of our song,
the shudder from a startling bang
of a firecracker lit by a child
a week before New Year.
I remember the warmth
of the air you blew on that ear,
how it tickled me whenever
you whispered your endearments.
And I remember the throbbing
silence after you closed the door
about eight years today.

All that's left now is a hole I stuff
cotton and oil in before a bath.

BEFORE THE RUPTURED EARDRUM

I remember the tremor
in my sister's voice
reaching the highest note
of our song, the shudder
from a firecracker lit by a child
a week before New Year.

I remember the warmth
of your breath on that ear,
how it tickled when you
whispered your endearments.

And I remember the silence
that throbbed after you
closed the door—eight years today.

Now only a hole remains,
stuffed with cotton before a bath.