Today, because I couldn’t find the shortcut through,
I had to walk this town’s entire inner
perimeter to find
where the medieval walls break open
in an eighteenth century
arch. The yellow valley flickered on and off
through cracks and the gaps
for guns. Bruna is teaching me
to cut a pattern.
Saturdays we buy the cloth.
She takes it in her hands
like a good idea, feeling
for texture, grain, the built-in
limits. It’s only as an afterthought she asks
and do you think it’s beautiful?
Her measuring tapes hang down, corn-blond and endless,
from her neck.
When I look at her
I think Rapunzel,
how one could climb that measuring,
that love. But I was saying,
I wandered all along the street that hugs the walls,
a needle floating
on its cloth. Once
I shut my eyes and felt my way
along the stone. Outside
is the cashcrop, sunflowers, as far as one can see. Listen,
the wind rattles in them,
a loose worship
seeking an object,
an interruption. Sara,
the walls are beautiful. They block the view.
And it feels rich to be
inside their grasp.
When Bruna finishes her dress
it is the shape of what has come
to rescue her. She puts it on.

2 Comments

  1. Taylor says:

    This poem had me crying because it reminds me of my friend who went blind from a car accident and i just wanted to let you know that your poems rock

  2. Lisa says:

    I am a single mother of 4, very young, beautifull boys. I have aproximately 16 mnths of sight left in my only seeing eye. Your poem gave me hope. So now as i prepare for the worst, i know that i will always see them beautifull. I knew that alley. It left me with strength. Maybe i should open a shop. Thank you, for that hope!

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