what the Tax Collector heard

from the sycamore I see the heads
of the slighted, sea-shifting crowns of hair,
each mumbling below me, waiting. from here
I survey the bruises from the crowd.
from here, I watch.

in the mixture of cascading voices
I listen for my own pulse.
the air carries down from the tree
the jingling of coins in my pockets -
a weighty noise, a brassy ring
when I shift upon the branches
and wait from here
and try being still.

Foolish, they'll think,
and he'll echo their curses.
it's suddenly that I envision
my worst fears arriving
with the sound of his voice,
a mighty hurricane
to shake the trunk,
to tumble me out of here.

suddenly, I look to see
I'm found by him.

and now I hear nothing at all
except my own name.
no silver dancing through the breeze or
babbling breath below when he calls me -
my own letters are the sound of blood rushing.
it's all I can do not to
cry like an infant tasting air
as though it were sugar
after inhaling for the first time.

from here, we leave.
he embraces me as we walk,
my shoulders lifting up
even against the weight of his arm,
and even my ears seem to soar,
muted from the cries
I imagine escaping behind.

even my past, which once sounded
like the clanging of drums,
even that and all things forward
now sound like all the trees of the field,
clapping their hands.