by Marck L. Beggs
I was certain that blindness was a form
of darkness, a quick drop into the hole
or a cave where I led thirteen people—
blind as proverbial bats—down dark stairs.
We paused at the final turn, a volta
of black light, I declared. We would become
witnesses to a dark so pure, crickets
lived blind and translucent among the dust.
A dark so pure, I insisted, that should
we remain here for a month, retinas
would die and we would spend our last days dark.
I clicked off the lights and laughter erupted.
* * *
Darling, forever I have been the fool.
Watching you lean into a book—gold light
flashing off your hair, a shadow halo
shifting along the wall—at least I know
there is a world of carved words between us.
Moreover, I know the scent of your hair
spread like leaves over a pillow is cause
for a night filled with unexpected dreams,
so rare in the empty space of my nights,
like a planet discovered through blind chance.
But you are more than dream, tiny darling—
standing up to faint, sitting down to pout—
if there were a single word to hold you,
it would stand forth clear as wind, and declare
itself so blind we missed it for the world.