ON HER BLINDNESS

With the right side of the world

invisible, not darkness--

there is no darkness except

when I close my eyes each night,

Navigating through  each day

is sometimes hard work to do.

The left eye, ninety-five percent

disconnected, the nerve torn

I stride down sidewalks quicker

than "normal" people believe.

"You're not really blind, you know,"

is shouted from some passing car.

By now, I just laugh at them.

If they only knew my life

from all its vantagepoints.

I would trade this cane, truly,

for a driver's license.

I envy their freedom--

always have. But I can see

the world at  a slower speed

as long as I have sidewalks,

or bike lanes, wider shoulders

on the roads I travel.

In my two-dimentional

world, I talk to people

everyday, and everyday,

strangers can't help but marvel

at my refusal to yield.

Let's take away their car keys,

force them to walk to bus stops,

waiting in all kinds of weather

for buses that never come.

Let them board buses that stop

too far from the curb 

to manage without stepping

in snow, in puddles, in mud.

Let them try to figure out

how to get from 

point A

to point B

without having to ask for help.

The empty half of my life

has always existed.
Everyone, and everything,

has height and width, but no depth.

"Where is...?" is answered by

someone pointing their finger,

which, of course, I cannot follow.

It must be hard--to drive, to look

where one is going. to shop,

to work, to play, just to live,

with all one's faculties intact:

how do you manage so well?

How do you manage to ask

such stimulating questions?

without tripping on your tongue,

without your brain convulsing

from the effort of inquiry?

I would really like to know.