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Ode to My Hearing Aids

Camisha L. Jones

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.

From Flare (Finishing Line Press, 2017). Copyright © 2017 by Camisha L. Jones. Used with the permission of the author.

More by Camisha L. Jones

Disclosure

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.

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

Camisha L. Jones

2020

Accommodation

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

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