Anthology of Magazine Verse for 1921/Deafness
DEAFNESS
Wall-mountain rimmed around the sky And bellied down, a bowlWith chipped and crackled edge; the farm Dropped in like leaf-lopped cole.
Scrub trees crouched low on mountainside, Their fingers locked and baredUpon black rocks; at base great spruce Stood close and leaned and stared.
The house, with up-curled shingles, hugged The ground, a silent thing,Like a gray bird squatting on its perch In a cage, and cannot sing.
When she went up to bake for him, To tend the house and such,His deafness was a sorry chafe She pitied overmuch.
A day came when he ceased to speak; She did not care, for heWas far more ugly in his speech Than there was need to be.
But when the long days dragged on by Without a word from him,The crumbs of peace fell from her mind As leaves drop from a limb.
At first she zigzagged in her mind 'Twixt old Hen Levy's PlaceAnd his: she knew Four Corners brooked No showing of her face.
And then she planned shrill words to shriek To stab his deafness through;And he would watch, with cunning eye, Her stirred mind's boil and brew.
Then slyly he would egg her on: He'd cup his ear with hand,The while her throat rasped hoarse with words She hoped he's understand.
In summer loneliness was lulled By birds that came to sing;An old black creaker, by the door, Was always a friendly thing.
Slim poplars grew close to the barn And whispered all day long;The Plymouth Rocks scratched in their shade And cackled or made song.
But in the winter when the jays Sat shrieking, limb to limb,It seemed somehow that he must hear;— That she must talk with him.
And when a lone, lean crow would light Upon a fire-stubbed pine,It seemed a black thought from her heart, That blurred her brain like wine.
One day a storm drove down; the wind Banked snow in drifts on farm,Encircling, with one deep drift, The house like a gripping arm.
She shoveled a path from house to barn; The cattle must be fed:He let them go a day and night— At her plea shook his head.
The crow came to the barn that night; She took care of the cat;The crow, on top-loft ladder's round, In brooding silence sat.
When Sunday came the storm had cleared. Some city folks snow-shoedThrough Toby's Gap to Brimmer's Place, And one of them, a dude,
Was cold, and knocked upon the door; When no one answered, heJust turned the knob and went on in— To see what he could see.
Old Aaron sat, bound in a chair; His face was snarled with fear;His hair cut off'n him quite close; His throat cut, ear to ear.
She sat in a rocker, muttering, A-waggling of her head;But when she saw the dude, she rose:— "He heard! He spoke!" she said.
The ConservativeWinifred Virginia Jackson