by Allison Zaczynski

My roommate wants
a different version of me—
one who doesn’t leave
her hearing aids on the charger
when she makes her morning coffee.
I’d like if she didn’t see me
as only my missing parts.
Am I even missing parts anyway?
My hearing aids are just accessories.
Extra. As a child, I chose them in beige.
I wanted them to camouflage
into my body, even though they forced
my ears into elfin protrusion.
Now, I decorate them with holographic stickers.
I wear my hair pulled back
in butterfly clips.
I run into Ilya Kaminsky
at a smoothie shop in Harvard Square
an hour after he signs
my book at Woodberry.
And every morning,
I return to my room with my coffee.
I sit at my desk, let my cat inspect the mug.
Write with the silence of my ears,
listen only to my thoughts.


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Allison Zaczynski (she/her) is a deaf poet. She has an MFA in Creative Writing from Lesley University. Her poems have been included in Epistemic Lit, The Hooghly Review, Hog River Press, Yoga Journal, and Freshwater Poetry Journal. Allison placed twice in the Asnuntuck Community College Student Poetry Contest, winning third place in 2011, judged by Sue Ellen Thompson, and an honorable mention in 2012 judged by former Connecticut Poet Laureate Dick Allen.