Sunday, May 29, 2016

Poem for the Blind

There is a steel barrel in front of you.
Feel around the lip of the barrel,
a ring of rust.  Slip your hand down
into the barrel until it 
submerges into the dry center.
Pull out a large bruised pear  
and handle the pear
in front of your face.  Gently press
your fingers into the largest bruise.
It is the closed eye of an old woman—
her skin smooth as a hound’s ear.
She no longer smiles.  Set the pear down
and walk toward a museum T-rex, 
the sabers of his mouth warm 
as the bulbs of antique
Christmas lights, thousands 
of soap bubbles between his teeth 
in his open mouth, and in the bubbles 
a man’s face surfaces,
in the skin of his face deep purple
no one can reach.

Joel Fry

(Published in Plainsongs.)

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