by Ada Lowenthal

I wanted to know what it was like before we had sight,
before we knew light and its acolyte color, or while our
eyes were alive in our faces but obscured, like the
newborn baby’s eyes, blue gray like the stone called
angelite, fit for the before and sometimes the hereafter.

In the shadow house, night and day compress
like two palms mirror-met, lamps unlit, radio dial unswitched,
sniffs of mildew’s creep, a sink steeps in stagnant water.

Angelite-eyed, my blind grandfather turns his head
round like an owl at sound, his body immobile,
a noble tableau on his blanket-draped throne.

At visit’s end, fishing riches from his pocket, slowly rubbing
each penny nickel dime quarter, seeking alms for my palm,
then delicately folding my fingers over.

At home, blindfolded,
my fingertips ripple the unseen green walls like a stream,
the yellow scent of lemon lights the room.

~After Gerald Stern, Waving Good-Bye

Photo by Joseph Royer on Unsplash