on her blindness

you were there,

Mr. Milton,

when we drank red wine

and ate little chocolate cookies

shaped like the letters of the alphabet

on that night

when only a little moon light was shining on us.

she wore polka dots

and i wore stripes

and the only other thing separating us

were the 6 decades she had on this planet

before i came into being.

she didn’t just have them, she lived them, and exuberantly so,

but i won’t go into that now; she should do that. it’s a treat.

 

when i read to her your poem,

Mr. Milton,

and heard her murmur the words alongside with me from memory and heart,

the question seemed to be:

 

“what will i see when my eyes can no longer see the sun?

will there still be light

on the inside?”