If I Were Blind
If I were blind
my hands would grope
for passers by;
people on daylight’s road or
streets of night, those rushing
or loitering, everyone my hands
could catch. I would recognize you.
Anywhere.
My fingertips would trace
each passing face
fleeing from those
not marked by living,
palpating for trench-marked cheeks
with bold bones that extrude
where once a bullet was removed—
a scrubby beard, hairy hands
whose surprising touch lent a calm
to worries’ tangled strands—
a sculptor’s fingers,
lips full as fleshy fruit
their narrower ends curling into a smile.
I’d know it’s yours, the face that lights my room,
the one without a thread of guile.
My fingertips, precise as any scan
would know your presence.
My body, needing yours, would press close
feel the irregular beat of your heart
hear the bass music in your voice
then with arms circling you
we’d dance the dance of our first spring
though Winter’s kettle drums have struck our backs.
I’d need no eyes to recognize you.