Most schoolchildren recall two things
about Helen Keller: she was deaf, and
she was blind. The woman who read
with her hands. In the movie shown
to third-graders, she does not even get
the title role. We mute the television,
wander out at midnight, box our ears
and close our eyes like this is all it takes
to imagine. My sister’s silhouette never
appeared on the back of a quarter. She
was bald, and she was breastless. A
pink ribbon on a now-oversized sweater.
In the oncology ward, she did not even
get to wear her favorite slippers. I leave
my hair for the dustpan, draw tread marks
down my chest, press them against me
and strain my neck downward to make
certain they bounce back bounce back.
About the author:
Amy David moonlights as a poet and performer in Evanston, IL. Her work has appeared most recently in Super Arrow, The Legendary, and Shit Creek Review. She is a three-time member of the National Poetry Slam team representing Chicago. In the daytime, she is a PhD student in Industrial Engineering and Operations Research.
Really strong work. Love the line “A
pink ribbon on a now-oversized sweater.”