A Girl

A Girl

There was a girl whose ears were bricked up,
Or whose eyes were. For the sake of this poem,
Her ears. There was no one to blame for the fact
She’d never heard her own name (so why should you?).
Her parents learned to sign, and a silence fell
Between them. Anything they said seemed like
Something they were keeping from their daughter.
The three grew closer, as if their rapid hands
Were weaving a web in which they were being
More tightly entwined. The city put up signs up
And down her block. Mornings she stood looking 
Towards where the bus came silently towards her,
Nodded to the nodding driver, took in at a glance
Children whose ears were open and whose mouths
Opened and closed like those of gasping fish.
Even the bullies were kind of kind to her, as if
Her ears — extraneous, vestigial — had been
Bricked up against their cruel words specifically.
She was saved from so many stupidities, and late
In life, after her parents’ hands had gone still
In the grave, doctors took sledgehammers
To the brick walls of her ears, ran some wires
Into her brain, then stood back to watch her
Face soften as, for the first time, she heard music.