by Rachel Becker

The doctor says the hearing
loss is bilateral, mild

to moderate, premature
given my age. During the test,

a robotic voice intones
You can say firetruck,

so I say firetruck‍ ‍
and you can say nosebleed,

and I say nosebleed.
Why is every crisis

compounded? And what if
I can’t say? Sometimes,

I hear death instead
of best. Moon instead

of noon. The air chooses
which sounds to swallow

into its vanishing mouth,
which ones to leave fallow.

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Rachel Becker’s poetry recently appears or is forthcoming in journals including North American Review, Post Road, MER, SoFloPoJo, Rust & Moth, Wild Roof, Crab Orchard Review, and RHINO. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University and is a poetry editor for Porcupine Literary: a journal for and by teachers. She lives in Boston.