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I’m sorry, could you repeat that. I’m hard of hearing.
To the cashier
To the receptionist
To the insistent man asking directions on the street

I’m sorry, I’m hard of hearing. Could you repeat that?
At the business meeting
In the writing workshop
On the phone to make a doctor’s appointment

I’m-sorry-I’m-sorry-I’m-so-sorry-I’m-hard-for-the-hearing

Repeat.

Hello, my name is Sorry
To full rooms of strangers
I’m hard to hear

I vomit apologies everywhere
They fly on bat wings
towards whatever sound beckons

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry
and repeating
and not hearing

Dear (again)
I regret to inform you

I am

here

More by Camisha L. Jones

Ode to My Hearing Aids

Then God said

let there be sound

and divided the silence

wide enough for music

to be let in and it was a good groove

And God said

let there be overflow

sent sound in all directions

pin drops & children's laughter

phones ringing & plates clattering

and it was kind of good but too much at times

So God said

let there be volume control

let there be choice how loud life should be

and there came the power to fade

the voices, the annoyances, the noise

and that was mighty good for all the unnecessary drama

Then God said let there be surprise, startle even

at the bird's chirp, the ice maker,

the cabinet slammed shut

let there be delight

at the first calls in months

to father & best friend

and these were such good reasons for choking back tears

that God saw

the dark & the light

dangling brilliantly from each ear

and God whispered amen

then smiled when it was heard.

Camisha L. Jones

2017

The law wants my body reasonable
My body won't fence in its demands
Expects the world to stop
Whenever it wants to lay down
Throws up its middle finger
At deadlines, task lists,
Long awaited meetings
It ain't open to negotiation
Wants you to stop telling it to
Calm down
It has three settings: rest, spark, flare
All that talk about your inconvenience & your hardship
It calls that Bullshit
It will not wait in line
It will not be polite
It will not use its inside voice
It wants all the space
In every room of the house
The entire sky & the full lawn of grass
It wants to set it all aflame
My body is a pyromaniac
My body is the art
Of Angela Bassett's right hand
Letting reason go up in smoke

Camisha L. Jones

2017

On Working Remotely & No Longer Commuting with Chronic Pain

the train leaves the station without me / so does the bus / the sidewalks stay empty of my steps—the rushed ones, the ones pierced with pain, the its-too-late-at-night to still be walking ones / i keep my cash / it doesn’t load my metro card and then another card when the first one’s lost / i don’t panic in the car about leaving late—least not as much / when winter comes, i don’t sit on the cold, cold bench waiting and waiting, clutching a pair of my stockpiled hand warmers / i don’t bundle myself up in oppressive layers / or unravel in the late night, releasing the day’s pressure like a punctured balloon / instead i sit / and continue to sit / in this chair then that one / look out the window to escape the screen’s demands / wonder how i ever had fuel for those past travels / i rest / and i rise / and listen to the body that’s carried me here as it whispers the way forward

Camisha L. Jones

2021

Related Poems

On Being Told I Look Like FLOTUS, New Year’s Eve Party 2014

Deep in my biceps I know it’s a complement, just as
I know this is an all-black-people-look-alike moment.
So I use the minimal amount of muscles to crack a smile.
All night he catches sight of me, or someone like me, standing
next to deconstructed cannoli and empty bottles of Prosecco.
And in that moment, I understand how little right any of us have
to be whoever we are—the constant tension
of making our way in this world on hope and change.
You’re working your muscles to the point of failure,
Michelle Obama once said about her workout regimen,
but she knows we wear our history in our darkness, in our patience.
A compliment is a complement—this I know, just as the clock
will always strike midnight and history repeats. This is how
I can wake up the next morning and love the world again.

January Gill O’Neil

2016

At a Deli Counter in Vermont

Your ride home complains the grocery store is freezing
they’d rather wait outside the burly guy
with the walrus stache asks whether you want your Italian
with the works You’re not sure what that means

So you ask and he tells you laboriously surprised
and also do you want tomato thanks
you lean on the counter and focus on condensation
the chill on your palm and forearm and under the glass

the meats in trays and butcher paper beds
some sausages sad stacked-up tongue
a leathery souse or loaf so out of it

that when he wants to know if that’s your order
and calls out loud     Is that your order ma’am
you startle and then apologize      for taking up his time
but he called you ma’am        so you don’t mind

Stephanie Burt

2019

I Won’t Wash the Dishes Anymore

Translated from Portuguese by John Keene

I won’t wash the dishes anymore
Or dust the furniture
I’m sorry
I’ve begun to read
The other day I opened a book and a week later I decided
I won’t carry the trash out to the trash bin
Or clean up the mess of leaves falling in the yard
I’m sorry
After reading I noticed each dish has its own aesthetic,
an aesthetic of traces, of ethics, of static
I look at my hands as they flip the books’ pages
Hands much softer than they were before
I feel that I can start to be all the time
I feel. If something happens
I am not going to wash anymore. Nor bring
your rugs in for dry cleaning
My eyes grow teary
I’m sorry
Now that I’ve begun to read I want to understand,
why, why?
And why
things exist
I read and I read and I read
I even smiled
And left the beans to burn. . .
See, the beans always take time to cook
Let’s just say things are different now. . . .
Ah, I forgot to say
I won’t do it any more
I‘ve resolved to have some time for myself
I’ve resolved to read about what's going on between us
Don’t wait for me
Don’t call for me
I won’t be going
From everything I’ve ever read, from everything I understand
It was you who went
Went too far, for too long, past the alphabet
It had to be spelled out for you
I won’t wash things to cover up the true filth
Or dust things clean and scatter the dust from here to there and from there to here
I’ll disinfect my hands and avoid your moving parts
I won’t touch alcohol
After so many years literate
I’ve learned to read
After so much time together
I’ve learned to make a break

My sneaker from your shoe
My drawer from your ties
My perfume from your scent
My canvas from your frame
That’s how it is, I’m not washing a thing anymore
And I stare at the filth at the bottom of the glass

The moment always arrives
of shaking things up, of moving forward, of making sense of things
I do not wash dishes anymore
I read the signature on my Emancipation Proclamation in black capital letters,
size 18, double-spaced
I set myself free

I do not wash dishes anymore
I want silver platters
Deluxe kitchens
And gold jewelry
The real kind

So is the Emancipation Proclamation decreed

Cristiane Sobral

2018

poets.org

Poems

Disclosure

More by Camisha L. Jones

Ode to My Hearing Aids

Accommodation

On Working Remotely & No Longer Commuting with Chronic Pain

Related Poems

On Being Told I Look Like FLOTUS, New Year’s Eve Party 2014

At a Deli Counter in Vermont

I Won’t Wash the Dishes Anymore

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