Year of the Snake
My long-ago Braille teacher
suspected me of peeking at the little
bumps on the page. I was flattered
and also insulted.
A snake would rather touch
than be touched, says somewhere
the late Richard Howard.
Born in the year
of the snake, having once mistaken
a radio battery for a candy bar,
I learned early
that I could not know the world
by putting everything in my mouth.
I settled for fingertips,
blunt but tender.
My blind brother-in-law
once held my hand while we talked. A picture
appeared on Facebook with the caption, Roy and John’s
Commitment Ceremony.
From time to time he’ll ask
to feel somebody’s face, his careful fingers
tracing each wound, where the skin has felt
the world’s teeth.
I am too shy to ask,
my hands’ longing a kind of tactile gaze,
and now even the voice,
my old friend, is muffled,
concealed behind the baggy cloak
of a double mask.
The fog
in this already darkened room
grows thicker, and only with an opened hand
will anyone find the door.