eighdrien

I once asked a blind man
If he wanted to sit near the window.
Stupid me; I should think before I speak.

He wanted to know my name.
So I told the man my name.
He repeated it, over and over.
He reached for my hand and held it between his,
Large and warm and worn,
And I suddenly felt small and scared
When he stepped in a bit closer,
And his palm touched on my shoulder,
And I felt somehow in danger.
Not of him, but of myself.

He spoke, "Thank you," and he asked to touch my face.
He wanted to see me.
I said, "I guess; okay."
I tried not to laugh.
It was silent, awkward, absurd,
This stranger's calloused hands across my eyelids,
Fingernails catching eyebrow hairs,
I kept my lips pressed tight together,
And my eyes gave me no filter.

And funnily, I saw myself then
As blind as I've ever been.

After all, the man could hear the Mexican fountaingrass
Tapping the windowpane,
And feel the day's last shine across his face
The same way I do,
Though perhaps more intensely,
And in a different shade of green.