Alyssa Radtke

THE POET ASKED ME WHAT MY WHEELCHAIR SYMBOLIZED

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The wheelchair is not a figure of speech.
Walking is—
unless it's Friday
because my parents know me as a
supported biped—
but when I walk to the library after class,
I'm sitting down.
I don't use crutches
(they are called canes),
but I use wheelchairs as a crutch,
in the writing sense
because the universal symbol
of access is a wheelchair with a head;
mind and movement without body—
confined freedom,
poetry.

* * *

PERL POEM: TEACHERS EDITION

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use strict;
#stranger small talk
/sys when work is mentioned, expect shock.
Gasps “In a wheelchair?”
*/skeptical/*
}
my answer =
   if (parent) {affirm_unexpected¬_futures + X DISPLOC smile */hope and Hallmark/*;
}
   if (polite) {confidence +'$stale_joke'=
}
   if (patronize) {XDISPLOC tight smile */restraining punches/*
}
   if (!@#&) {lecture on rights + righteous_anger
}
   if (question_my_agenda) {"my existence is political" + smile XDISPLOC teeth
}
   if (educator + older) {beg for advice + earnest
}
   if (educator + same age) {commiserate + invite for drinks
}
exit on "Topic change."

* * *

TO CHARGE A WHEELCHAIR

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Please for god's sake remember. You hate lagging a few seconds behind desire. You aren't conserving battery. Considering you've done this for years and found that turning off doesn't save much. Of course this assumes load testing ninety-five percent charge. But you do not run a chair like an octogenarian day-tripper. All the way across a college campus every single day. A fifty-percent load holding battery will die. In the middle of the street. Try to get to bed before 2 AM. Your 'chair is a desk chair and "dining room." Actually the small counter by the bathroom sink. Charging requires stillness. And time. Make sure the charger is plugged in. All cables necessary. Notification lights on. The pins fitted properly to the weirdly shaped hole. You've had this 'chair for years. Good light helps. The charger light turns red and the charger fan hums loudly like anxiety a white noise that is constant and makes it hard to sleep. In the morning the light should be green. You hope. Here are your legs.

* * *

Alyssa Radtke is in her final year of a Creative Writing MFA at The University of Memphis, where she works as an English Teaching Assistant and Writing Consultant. "The Poet Asked Me What the Wheelchair Symbolized" won The University of Memphis's 2017 Deborah L. Talbot Poetry Prize and has been published on the Association of American Poets website under that prize. Her poetry has also appeared in Breath and Shadow.