by Ginger Dehlinger                                      

As a neighborhood kid,
my ears were dirt magnets
after jumping rope
or playing kick-the-can all day.
Mom made me scrub ‘em with a washcloth.
Boys put beans in ‘em.
Bernie’s ears were so big we called him Dumbo.

During our middle school years,
boys gave each other wet willies
girls got their lobes pierced.
I added doubles on my sixteenth birthday,
had my first eargasm at twenty.

Now my bejeweled appendages     
also serve as
echo chambers for Bluetooth buds
hitching posts for eye glasses
nooks for snore silencers
ledges for hearing aids
slingshots for Covid masks.
It’s a good thing our ears never stop growing.