What a Mostly-Blind Eye Says

Close the lids of your words and listen.
The dirt, soft and loamy, is where
the rising world makes its home.
I may be mostly blind, but who isn’t?

Still, I can see the sounds of birds
only the power lines adore. I can inhale
a swath of light swimming in sun
the so-called seeing eye can’t imagine.
Light hums like the smooth sides
of a large cave, marrying the particulars
we usually divide: irritated cat
instead of unmade bed, doorknob
instead of golden globe mirroring the sky.

Why do I keep saying, “mostly blind,”
as if someone, surely not me, chuffed
all the shutters down at once to fixate
on where the wall meets the floor
with a pipsqueak of a crack?

Nothing taken or lost ever leaves us completely.
Bodies were made to compensate, to sing
in their rusty voices of what’s coming
into view, especially in the dark.
All God’s children love the sky.

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About the Author

Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg, Ph.D., the 2009-13 Kansas Poet Laureate is the author of 24 books, including How Time Moves: New & Selected Poems; Miriam's Well, a novel; Needle in the Bone, a non-fiction book on the Holocaust; The Sky Begins At Your Feet: A Memoir on Cancer, Community, and Coming Home to the Body. Founder of Transformative Language Arts, she leads writing workshops widely, coaches people on writing and right livelihood, and consults on creativity.

Caryn Mirriam-Goldberg
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