Photo by Mike Hovancsek  copyright 2000
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


 
 
 

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