To Tinnitus

You could be crickets or midges,
whine of the wires inside the walls,
transmissions from distant stars, share
I can hear of the music of the spheres,
high frequency keen of a cathode-ray T.V.

Whatever you are, the soundtrack of my inner
existence consists of your high-pitched hiss;
while everything changes, unchangingly
you persist.

In the presence of humming appliances
(fridge in the kitchen, white noise machine
set on high in my waiting room)
you disappear awhile into the midst of these—
always with silence you slink back in.

Each day I wish you away,
and you answer—
not what I wanted to hear, its sound.

Maybe you are angels electric with witness,
lifting all sorrow that can’t be borne,
holding it slightly aloft as song?

The angels can’t save us from pain,
nor can they turn away—

Sorrow of sentience spread over centuries,
wouldn’t it sound like this high, thin wail?

If so, it is meaningful, yes, when I hear you
(I’m wrestling for a blessing here),
but yours doubles my trouble:

when listening for a living is what I do,
you’re what I listen beside, and through—

patients leave with their burdens
and I’m left with mine, with you.

—Donna C. Henderson, from Rattle #34, Winter 2010
Tribute to Mental Health Professionals

Last spring, I had the pleasure of being published in “The Junction,” the English Majors’ Office-run literary magazine that continues to be a staple in Brooklyn College.  One of my pieces, titled “Tinnitus,” was a fan-favorite amongst the interns at the time and continues to be a poem I return to as I suffer from the titular condition.

Whether it’s the aftermath from a loud concert, or the effects of a night of heavy drinking, or I’m in the library and the suffocating quiet reminds me what my ears will never escape, tinnitus always comes back to me. Like any other chronic condition, one has to learn to live with it and this poem was a way for me to do so. I used to feel like the perpetual ringing in my ear would drive me mad, but now I almost rely on it. I feel less alone in empty rooms, and less scared; I’d be a lousy horror movie victim because I don’t fear the quiet; I’ve never known what that truly sounds like. I’ve always had that distant wail in my head, comforting me, reminding me that I’m alive, vibrating with energy and sound. I’ve learned to love tinnitus, to accept it as my life partner, my co-author, my universe forever expanding within me.

Tinnitus

A universe imploded

In my ear—

It’s been rippling since.

—Isaiah Rivera