Blind House

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic


Submitted: March 23, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: March 23, 2018




By A. Guinevere Kern

Copyright 1993


In a blind house,

Touch translates the dark.

Language is raised goosebumps

On brown arms of braille pages.

Eyes are stale dungeons

With vision as prisoner.

No exit.  My Mother's eyes

Were stillborn, her retina's

Disheveled shawls, cataracts

Opal milk stones; closed shutters.

She hated tin-cup thoughts,

Guide-dog pity.  With particular

Vengeance she gouged out potato eyes,

Scraping the skin off in curls.

Mom knew how to eliminate

Covering, masks, the costumes

Of convention.  In a blind house

Light is vision's dead relative.

We use our minds to see.

I am a poet raised

In a blind house.

Her survival depended upon

My auxiliary eyes; precise oral

Reports.  How many steps down?

Is the light green? Is a car coming?

I was the harlequined hump-back

Bell-capped Jester begging her smile.

For Mother I describe blistering sunsets,

The carmine capes of doorside roses, the

Twisted agony of roadside deer

Some hunter shot and forgot for better prey.

Like the lame who lament the loss of walking,

My mother weeps to see, she weeps to see.

I grind and grind my lens of words

Until my Mother can see, she can see!

We walk, symbiotic, through the park,

White cane swinging like a magic wand,

A sweet metronome tapping:



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