by Amanda Beth Peery
There’s a door behind her ear—or
really in the fold
where the ear meets the skull
where a down of short brown hairs
nestles up to her ear-cup, the door
sometimes burns
and she drags one long fingernail
deep along the crease like an animal
scratching itself with a claw
to quiet whoever it is
who lives there—
she’s pretty sure it’s a door
but it could be a wall.
* * *
Here you have the ear parade
the hearing party
the masquerade
of ears that meet by the waterfront
under the train bridge where the waves
are at their reckless loudest—all
cloaked in deep fur muffs
or decorated with a little pretty lace
hanging from a hat
or jeweled with a flesh-tone hearing aid
like a prehistoric statue.