She read
my closed eyelids
with the slightest
of touches
sculpts
my open lips
with the soft tip
of a little finger
an open palm
cupping my cheekbone
as if it were precious
porcelain
a wrist
hold back
a flow of hair
curls escaping
through her finger.
She arranges
& re-arranges
my smile
creates its
laughter
her fingerprints
all over
whorl upon whorl
me
a thumbprint
left over like a potter
on an eyebrow
touch upon touch
upon touch
butterflies
and yet more
butterflies
my granny
in her blindness
reading me
with her fingers
bringing me
into being
with a wave of her
hand.' ' ' ' '
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
I have always had very poor eyesight, so blindness has always been a great fear of mine, but somehow, some way, this has made me envious of that all seeing eye, the hand, that touches and memorizes those we love and treasure. To touch, to feel, to KNOW the very essence of someone, to long to see them and not be able to...but still, yet, to somehow know their faces. This is beautiful.