Blindness has finally settled comfortably into my life.
It hasn’t always been so. We have drawn blood.
I ignored it, chased it from my yard, but it would not leave.
So blindness and I shook hands, became friends.
Like the fine china for special occasions,
poetry had a place at our family table
but blindness dragged poetry out of storage for everyday use,
made it accessible, aired it out.
Coleridge wrote of the tyranny of the visual.
Poetry and blindness hold me accountable.
They demand I abandon habits no longer relevant,
smirking at ideas I have long held. I’m better for it.
Now, I sense the signature of a stride,
voices as distinct as thumbprints.
I can smell something funny going on. My memory muscle
is as toned as an elite athlete.
Poetry has claimed me. I’m restless without writing.
I want to swing from the r in word and paragraph,
bounce on to the s in sentence and phrase.
More than a want, I need to steep in good poetry.
Neither blindness nor poetry can be
neglected, nor tolerate clutter. They stalk
my sleep. I need writing to mix-up, up-end,
shake-up my assumptions.
Like all good writing, poetry is portable, accessible
to anyone. Poetry welcomes those who love or never have,
who are loved or never have been, were lost,
but now are found. Were blind—but now they see.