These poems are published as part of the Amplifying Disabled Voices special section, selected by editors Christopher Heuer, Marlena Chertock, and Gregory Luce.
Wry-Necked Diptych
Wring, wrang, wrung. My mother’s girlhood chore, to kill
the dinner chicken. She longed for the city. When she got
to her city, she longed for the hens and sisters left behind.
Don’t cross your eyes, she warned, they might get stuck.
But gave no warning of indecision’s perils.
How they can wrench a neck, distort a voice, contort
a body perpetually. Some days I want to holler. Get back!
I warn my son who clambers dangerously close to the bow.
But only gravel bits spill out. Only one whale spotted
off the coast of Santa Barbara that day, despite the captain’s
zigging and zagging. Can a curandera heal my neck? She
sings, offers fresh-squeezed juice, shows me how to bury
roadkill using gloves and shovel she keeps in her trunk.
Lie on the bare earth, she instructs. Eat wild strawberries.
My neck wasn’t swan-like, but it was cooperative,
capable of doing what I asked: holding up my head,
allowing walnuts and tea to transit unobstructed
to my gut, housing the apparatus of my speech
and song. In triangle pose, it turned my face toward
the sun, stayed strong and straight in a headstand,
however brief. Without wilt or droop, it meditated.
One day, a turning of my neck to the right. A jerk,
a bobble, a twist. Wry neck, wrenched, wrung. No
longer mine to control. Some days, even my voice
is silenced. An effort now, to hold my head up,
level, facing forward. To heal what can be healed,
which is not this dystonic neck. What words to sing
to this body? To the dimmed lights ringing it?
On Stoicism
Angling for green beans, I cut a woman
off with my shopping cart. She looks
like the neighbor whose son was shot
by officers in the woods behind my house.
Older than her age. Sorrow on her face,
or resignation. Anger, too. The scowl,
the hunch. If I had a gun, I’d shoot them,
that neighbor threatened when my dogs
escaped the unlatched gate. The beans
look good, I will a smile as I speak, then
apologize for the danger of me: blundering
like a flounder, neck torqued, left eye,
a blank. We all have something, she says,
and I sense how heavy hers must be.
A former biomedical writer, Mary Specker Stone lives in Scottsdale, Arizona, where she practices as a certified spiritual director and leads poetry salons. Her poetry has appeared in Image, Mom Egg Review, RockPaperPoem, Gyroscope Review, and other journals. Her chapbook, Valentine’s Dinner at Wren & Wolf, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2024. For thirty years, Mary has lived with dystonia, a rare neurologic disorder that causes involuntary muscle contractions and painful, uncontrolled movements in her neck and vocal cords.
Featured image in this post is, “A Chicken Running, 2009″ by Alvesgaspar – licensed creative commons via Wikimedia Commons.
