by Marion Wrenn

One way to listen to the city
is to choose one sound above the rest;

let the ear engineer a soundscape; let it 
glide across the crush of tender missions

at treacherous intersections, shun interlocked
brakes, fire smashed horns

from transplanted drivers; plunge against
the flow and attend the absence 

of the Muezzin’s call in the gloaming. 
Avenues drop rose-colored

light. I’ve been listening for the distant crow 
of a rooster someone’s keeping close

whose cry erases the tumult–the marriage
of soil in a raised box for root vegetables 

and the carrot of birdcall above the hum. 
Every prayer is a gentle wish for a time

machine; every wish a feathered freefall 
that robs the thanks from my lips; 

listen for the chicken someone
can’t keep secret and be glad.

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Marion Wrenn is the author of Gladiola Girls (Cooper Dillon Press). Recent poems have appeared in American Poetry Review, River Heron Review, and The Georgia Review. She co-edits the literary journal Painted Bride Quarterly, where she also co-hosts the literary podcast "The Slush Pile." She is the Executive Director of Writing at NYU Abu Dhabi.