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The Interpreter Tries to Blend In It’s hard in this town to find meaning beyond what’s present, what’s blatant. The churches take over theatres. Restaurants are reborn in worship.The party stores sell cold, single bottles.Who can blame the students who wander, find themselves drifting in class to the interpreter? Finger bee, it is so like singing. It is also like rocking life in her arms—her words, not words, not of this world.We who are born into bright sound breaking, don’t we want what has been denied? The store owner waits for the message, the order from the deaf group who gather weekly to debate over pizza. It’s hard to get anyone’s attention, so he keeps coming back to their table with pencil to point at the menu. They are patient.The only sound is accidental, guttural, a cry. Sometimes there’s nobody in there but them, their fingers, flying like insects, alive at the wrists. On those nights, he sits alert at the counter, grease on his hands, trying not to look out. -48- ...

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