Poetry

Spring 2008

 

 

Mervyn Taylor

Going Blind

My cousin's going blind. Most of the day
he spends in the space between
the edge of the bed and the dresser
listening to music, while his mother
sways, one hand stretched out, the other
holding an imaginary partner.

Each time she turns, the hem of her dress
brushes his knees. Such nice music, she says,
and no one to dance with. When it's a song
she really loves, he can almost see
the man she is clinging to, as they spin
and glide across the floor.

 

 

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