There are moments in my mind’s eye when I see us. I see him turned…
I rise up into storm sky, writing my poems like fragments of longing that I fold into overlay and slip beneath my cheekbones so that when your hand unfurls to fingers grazing my face, you become the blind man learning longing in Braille, skimming meaning from the message you cannot see but can only feel, were you willing. My eyes that have been called bottle glass and the undertow of the ocean and cat almond look on, telling you nothing, revealing only reflection of the fissure when the lightning finally strikes.
© 2018 Dora E. McQuaid