No Walls of Stone

Speaking About the Deaf Child

Anne McDonald

My play's a voice in a puppet
theater with only my tongue
for an audience. I unfurl
ballet words, translate
the wind's tongue
Into conch shell language.

People imagine I'm velvet
flung into a tree-nest
while I prance outside their gates.
But gratings from their inner
worlds reach me through my toes.

And I dance myself out
of my dance in tune to drums
you beat around me, teaching
a new subject you call "advanced
vibrations." Silent flamingo-
hairdressers: missionaries,
touch me.

The Deadening of October - Wing Biddlebaum

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