Your Face
I have such an urge toward
blindness––the ease of Braille,
only the bumps to read from.I know as a cause this sucks.
I know it isn't halfway
there to meaningful.But you haven't been in front
of the fire, no amount of heat
to keep you warm.I have such an urge toward blindness--
when the light is too bright to see,
and the world burns to negative.I have such an urge to twist
the heavy weight of this world
into the shapes I want.Your face,
immortality,
the bare hands of our love.The first step of the twelve
steps of the living--
I am helpless.I do not want
to see the face, the pale
skin of the rejecting.Come along with me,
I am Tiresius,
I see what I know.What I know is,
your happy life––
how it rubs out my eyes.And how I am grateful
for the darkness,
for it is my own.It is what I have
made from my
foolishness and greed.It is my own and I sing it,
a firesong from
my long dark throat.
Copyright 2000 Jeanne Watson