Le Battement Caché

Lyrics

There is a hum.
Not in the room.
Under the skin.

Not the traffic from the street below.
Not the hiss of the espresso machine.
This is a closer conversation.
The faint pressure behind the eyes.
The shift of weight in my own bones as I stand.
The air, cool and measured, filling the space behind my ribs.
A telegram arrives before the thought to read it.

This is the quiet thunder.
Le battement caché.
The engine room I never see.
My own William James machine...
My hands tremble, so this must be fear.
My throat tightens, so there must be grief.
The insula is a dark room, and I am the only one listening.

A low growl from the deep.
A signal of hunger, not a word.
A dryness in the mouth that means water,
long before the word for water forms on the tongue.
The body sends its letters, stamped and sealed.
Postmarked from a country with no name.
A map of the self, drawn in blood and salt.

This is the quiet thunder.
Le battement caché.
The engine room I never see.
My own William James machine...
My hands tremble, so this must be fear.
My throat tightens, so there must be grief.
The insula is a dark room, and I am the only one listening.

And what if the line goes dead?
What if the house goes silent?
Like patient A.D., in his quiet lab.
To see the face of a lover and feel nothing.
The map is right, but the territory is numb.
A terrible blindness, to know without feeling.
To be a ghost in your own machine.

But here is the quiet thunder.
Le battement caché.
My engine room, I feel you now.
This old, faithful James machine...
My heart speeds, so you must be near.
My skin flushes, so this must be love.
The insula is my own room, and I am here, listening.

Thump-thump.
The sound of blood rushing in my own ears.
The only proof I need.
Thump-thump.
I am. Here.
Thump-thump.