(When someone is born deaf and blind, life is analogous to living in a sensory deprivation tank.)
All motion dissolves in the blackness
That his eyes have taken eternally.
He lies in that forlorn tank, his body covered
With a thin layer of salt, then and now,
Released from water.
Carson waits for a touch on his
Shoulder that signals the arrival of
Women from Sunday church at Shiloh.
He feels the subtle vibrations that
Diffuse into and run the length
Of his bones: preteen belles playing
Just beyond in the stark room where
Tea is served formally in paper cups,
And high heels stomp on hardwood floors;
The blood-pumping heart of the
English Springer that curls nearby and
Dreams of chasing in a wild frenzy the
Scent of the elusive rabbit through all
Woods of Tennessee.
Blackness is a selfish thief who gives
Nothing up easily. But something wonderful
Comes from blackened eyes, banged out
With his fists, those puckish shapes that
Flash across the cold nakedness of his
Shuttered eyelids. He counts each with a
Relentless clicking of his teeth: jagged stars,
Concentric circles, and the two-sided irregular
Forms that merge and burst once and forever.
Carson floats in the mute and seamless
Mix of serene seas. His tongue and lips
Crave the acidic juices of oranges and lemons;
His throat desires a sweet drop of water.
His body seeks an anchor, the arms
An embrace. That unavoidable dependency
Of the senses breached, thus his mind drifts
Above like an exhausted sailor in the wake
Of his body. He contemplates in his own
Odd assembled language the morphing
Images that were not those once traced
By his fingers. But how could he imagine
The Iris bloom or the ancient ruins of Mycenae?
Perhaps, he might beat his eyes ignoring
The pain, striking until that strange intense
Light bursts through those white-knuckled
Clinched hands. Climbing from the stygian tank,
He would filter the brilliancy through slit-
Spaced fingers as it forms the taupe sofa, the
Walnut stained table, and the soft blue
Walls. He might feel the subtle changes
Of warmth among the reds, indigos and
Violets. He would stare at solemn grays of
The recent full moon, and the flames that dart
In the fireplace like those irregular forms beaten
Out in his eyes. He would greet the different
Timbre of the sonata and walk complete in his
Regal presence in the holy balanced air. Stunned
By his reflection in the cracked mirror, the
Scarred forehead and hair just graying, he
Would understand those indecipherable
Vibrations, kneel, hug the Springer, and
Smother it with southern vigilance.
Soon they would be chasing the elusive rabbit
Across the small streams, through rustling leaves,
And the briars where the stuporous possum hides,
Ignoring his bluish-black shins and blood matted
Arms lately scratched, and beneath the tree where
The Great Horned Owl waits patiently for a
Midnight kill.
But until then he would mimic the sounds of rain
And wind. The softness of his skin gone, he would
Brush the salt away, speak in the cadence of children,
Absorb and assimilate the messages from each ray
Of light, and waltz in the aroma of sweet potato pie.
Want to try your hand at poetry? Email me at poeticiapoems@gmail.com
Featured image credits to Prettysleepy from Pixabay
