I’ve never heard a beep

or raised my hand. No,

when you’re deaf, your tests last an hour

in a sound-proof booth:

an audiologist evenly repeating

say baseball

say hot dog

say airplane

and squiggly ghost noises

pitched up/down,

echoing in my head until I can’t

tell real from replay. I know

the squiggles' rhythm —

when I’ve missed one.

Imagine: taking a test

you know you’ll always fail.

Even in my senior year,

they sent me, along with everyone else,

to the nurse for the annual hearing screening.

Behind me in line, my classmates watched

as I sat with the headphones on,

unaffected by phantom beeps.