Only when they’re empty
and raw do you discover
the cure for blindness
is in your hands.
In each open palm, an eye,
seeing what needs to be given –
a loaf, digging, some folded notes,
shadowplay of touch.
When what you own and know and love,
all that keeps you safe,
is what’s asked,
your fingers threaten to break
with the whole earth’s weight,
bones brittle with seeing
all the holding this blind world needs,
every ounce of letting go.
But the eyes in your palms
never blink –
shed small pearls of water
to rinse your unbound hands.
From: Startling, New Writing North, 2022