ALTHOUGH BLIND 1940

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: March 07, 2016

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Submitted: March 07, 2016

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I'm outside in the wheelchair,
sitting facing the sun,
my blind eyes sense,
but do not see the light.

My leg stumps
are covered by a blanket,
I am tucked up
neat and tight
like a parcel.

Hello, Grace,
a voice says to my right.

It's Guy.

I smell him,
the scent he wears
is overpowering.

Hello, Guy,
how are you?

I hear him take a chair
and sit beside me.

I am fine, but busy,
Hitler's being
a pest in France,
and hush hush work
in progress.

He is silent;
his hand touches mine.

Enough of me,
how are you?

I am unsettled,
I say,
my legs ache
and the stumps are sore.

How are they
treating you?
He asks.

Very well,
but I am impatient,
depressed,
want answers where
there are none,
ask questions,
but know the answers
before I ask.

How do you manage?
He asks.

I am getting there,
slowly, but surely,
I reply.

His hand rubs mine gently.
It reminds me
of Clive's hand on mine
that night he stayed
and we ended up
making love in my bed.

I miss that.

Making love.

Clive dead,
killed in Dunkirk.

How's Donald?

He is busy,
Gus says,
can't say what
he is doing,
hush hush stuff.

I see, I say,
although don't.

Philip is in the States;
he hasn't forgotten you,
Guy says,
he will take you out
for dinner once
he is back.

I can't imagine
going out for dinner;
people watching me
being wheeled into
a restaurant with no legs
and blind,
them staring,
and me unable to know
if they are looking
and what they
are wondering.

Guy talks on,
but I am
thinking of Clive,
of his kisses,
of his body
against mine,
seeing it in my mind,
even though
I am blind.


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